


The Last Week of June

by pepsicola



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, M/M, Stepbrother AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepsicola/pseuds/pepsicola
Summary: The summer before starting high school should always be memorable.





	1. Tweek Tweak

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my best, since I wrote it a year or so ago, but I feel like I should have it here nonetheless.

**Where are they?**

I’ve checked every inch of the living room—twice. I even got on all fours to look under the couch and tables. I lift my mom’s feet to get a better look under the couch again. In case they appeared when I wasn’t looking. All I see is dust and a few coins. Grumbling to myself, I rise to my feet and throw open the closet near the front door. It’s probably the place I should’ve checked first but didn’t because I’m impractical. Switching on the light, I scan the shoes on the floor. Mom’s heels, my dad’s loafers, my broken Converse… nope. Not there. I slam the door shut and spin on my heel. I pace on the carpet, nibbling on my thumbnail. Mom looks up from her book. She’s rereading _Hunger Games_ for the millionth time. I can’t say too much though. Once a year I reread the Harry Potter series.

“What’s the problem, pumpkin?” she asks.

“I can’t find my Timbs!” I exclaim. I stick my hands in the back pockets of my gray jeans to keep myself from pulling at my hair. On one side I feel the outline of my phone, and my Rubik’s Cube Craig gave me in seventh grade on the other.

Mom smiles her pretty smile at my futile panic. While my anxiety has lessened thanks to a better therapist, I still tend to panic over little things. Like losing my Timbs. Sometimes I feel like an overdramatic idiot. Maybe because I am. She sets the book face down on her lap. “Oh, don’t worry about that, sweetie. It’s gotta be here somewhere. Have you checked your room?”

“Yes! I checked everywhere! My room, your room, the bathroom, the kitchen, here. I can’t find them! I love those shoes,” I whine. I drag my feet over to the couch and collapse into the cushions beside her. Mom strokes my freshly cut sunflower-blonde hair, humming a song I’ve heard on the radio but can’t place in my panic. I groan into the pillow. “I can’t go anywhere without shoes to wear! If I do, I’ll cut my feet, or contract some kind of disease, man!”

“Wear different shoes. What about your Converse?” she suggests.

I mumble, “I need new ones. The soles are falling off of those.” I sit up, sighing. “My Timbs are the only shoes I own that haven’t broken in some sort of way yet. Even my fucking flip-flops are broken. We need to go shoe shopping before we leave.”

Mom scans my pale face, a soft smile on her mouth. I’m always told I look so much like her, with my light spray of freckles that only come out in the summertime, my button nose that she loves to pinch, and eyes fading from blue to green. I’ve asked her why my eyes are like this but none of my friends are, and she said it’s because we have _sectoral heterochromia,_  or something. In both eyes. In pictures I’ve seen, people only have it in one. The only other person I know who has heterochromia is Cartman, with his brown left eye and violet right eye that has a suspicious color similarity to Kenny’s eyes. Except Cartman’s is a more diluted violet.

“Did you check under your bed?”

I open my mouth to tell her that _“Yes, I already checked under there,”_ but I really haven’t. In my panic, I checked everywhere except for the most reasonable place they could be. Aside from the closet.

I facepalm. “Shit.” I stand from the couch and make my way up to my room. It’s a mess in here. I have Legos all over the floor, and a heap of clothes by my overflowing hamper. Mom hates the pigsty I leave my room in. Under my unmade bed sits my brown Timberlands. It’s been almost a month since school got out, so I haven’t worn them since. My shoe preference has been my Converse, until they broke two days ago due to a failed cartwheel competition against Butters. We were cartwheeling as many times as we could to see who would puke first, but my shoe snagged a rock and ripped in two. The toe was already falling off, but the rock made it worse. Seriously, what did I do to that rock to deserve a broken shoe? I had stared in horror at the state of my shoe. My friends had laughed at me, and I ended up chuckling with them. Craig carried me home, which was worth it. Then I was forced to wear my flip-flops until the strap on the left one snapped off because I was racing Kyle for five dollars. I sprinted too hard and the strap broke off. I won though, so it was worth it. That was yesterday when I had to walk home barefoot. Summers in South Park kinda suck.

I snatch my shoes from the darkness of my bed and shove my feet into them. I stand, brushing off invisible dirt from my pants. I run my hands through my cropped hair, retracing my steps back downstairs. To Mom, I call, “I’m gonna go talk to them now. See you soon.”

“Bye, Tweek.”

I leave the house and walk down the sidewalk. The June sun in South Park isn’t as hot as the July sun, but it’s enough for me to not be wearing long sleeves. I asked my friends to meet me at the basketball courts, but I got delayed looking for shoes. I doubt they care if I’m late, but I still feel kinda bad for leaving them out in the heat for almost ten minutes. What if they get sunburned and it’s all my fault? Feeling the need to do something with my hands, I pull my Rubik’s Cube from my pocket. My hands fly over the toy as I arrange the colors to match. I’d gotten extremely fast at solving it. My record time is 4.39 seconds.

I pass houses and adults until I’m at the courts. Looking up, I see Kyle throw the ball from the half court line. It swishes into the basket, earning his team three points. All the boys on his team cheer.

I approach them, keeping the Cube in my hand. The edges press into my skin. Jimmy’s sitting on the bench, fiddling with his phone, most likely playing Fortnite. I just never got into that stupid game. The rest of my friends did, and for a while, they wouldn’t leave their computers. Jimmy glances up from his screen as I near the bench. “Hey, Tweek,” he greets. His eyes flick back down to keep his guy from potentially dying.

“Hey, man,” I respond. I sit down next to him, watching the basketball game in front of us.

It’s obvious Kyle’s team is winning by the slumped shoulders of the opposing team. Not even Cartman’s width and Craig’s height can block Kyle’s accurate shots. Speaking of Craig, his eyes fall away from Kenny, who he was blocking, to me. Kenny darts around him, yelling at Stan to pass. Craig walks over to the bench.

“Craig!” Clyde yells. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t—” He does a double take, seeing me for the first time. “Oh. Never mind. Hey, Tweek.”

I give him a two finger salute before he returns his attention back to the game.

Craig sits down next to me, taking my hand in his. He drops a flushed cheek to my shoulder. I can feel the sweat from his forehead on my skin. “Ew, Craig. You’re all sweaty.” I push him off and he laughs. The rim of the blue chullo I had my mom make him for his twelfth birthday is soaked. I tug it off his head, tossing it into his lap. He insists on keeping it on no matter the heat. He has a thing about showing his hair, claiming it feels weird having it exposed. This time he decides to keep it off.

His pale green eyes glitter as he messes with his damp black hair. He smells like he needs a shower. Yet he still tries to kiss me. His lips pucker and he leans forward teasingly. I lurch away, really not wanting to taste his sweat. I shoot to my feet. “Stop it.” His hands latch onto my waist, reeling me closer to him. The back of my knees bump into the bench.

“Sit down,” he says.

I turn my head, raising an eyebrow at him. He grins, showing off his rainbow braces (since it’s Pride Month, but it’s almost over). He lifts a hand from me to make a grand gesture at his lap. I roll my eyes. Instead, I direct my voice to the court. “Uh, guys? Can you come over here?” I ask.

The game slows to a stop. Kyle tucks the ball under his arm. They’re all red and sweaty. At least they had something to occupy themselves with. A cool breeze sweeps over us.

“Why did you tell us to come here again?” Clyde asks.

Token nudges him in the ribs. “He hasn’t told us why yet. He just told us to meet him here,” he clarifies.

“And he was still late,” Cartman snaps. He sends me a glare. I flip him off, a habit I picked up from Craig. I’m not as scared of him as I used to be. I punched him earlier in the school year because he made fun of Craig’s braces. I ended up breaking his nose and getting away with detention for two days. Even the teachers hated him.

“If you’re done, Cartman, I can explain why I asked you here,” I say.

Everyone quiets down, looking at me. Briefly, I scan the faces in front of me. Stan’s stringy black hair poking out of the edge of his hat, Kyle beside him with his freckles, Butters and his bleach blonde hair, Kenny’s gap-toothed smile, Cartman’s red and sweaty face, Token and his kind expression, Clyde’s cheeks losing their chub. Beside and behind me I imagine Jimmy’s brown hair and Craig’s pale green eyes. All nine of them looking expectantly at me. I begin to sweat under the pressure of their eyes. I’d never admit it out loud that I actually enjoy having them as friends. I exhale. Why is this so hard to get out? “Okay. So. Every summer, my parents and I usually go to LA for about a week. Well, Venice Beach, to be specific. We have a house there—”

“Wait, you have a _house_ in Los Angeles?” Stan asks. His jaw is wide open. He better close it before a fly comes in.

“Do you rent it or is it, like, _yours_?” Kyle inquires.

I explain, “Yes, we have a house in LA, and it’s ours. We don’t rent it. We go there because it’s a bonding thing we do, even though I don’t really bond with my dad…” I cough, blushing. That got too real there for a second. “But anyway, to make a long story short, my mom’s letting me invite friends over this year since we’re all going to high school. She says a big trip will be fun before the big change. So… do you guys wanna come?”

What follows is a flood of exclamations from everyone.

Jimmy: “Wh-what kind of question is that? Of course!”

Cartman: “And all this time we were making fun of Token for being rich.”

Token: “Shut up, Cartman.”

Stan: “Dude!”

Kyle: “Dude!”

Kenny: “Hell yes, we’ll go!”

Butters: “That’s awful nice of you, Tweek!”

Clyde: “Craig, did you know about this Los Angeles house of his?”

Craig: “Yeah, obviously, but I’ve never been in person. I’ve only seen a little through FaceTime.”

I wait for the shock to subside. As I do, I finally give in and sit down on Craig’s lap. Instantly, his hands are wrapped around me. And people think _I’m_ the clingy one. ‘Cause I’m not. No matter what people say. I clear my throat loudly. All heads snap around to me. “So what I’m hearing is a unanimous ‘yes’?” I ask.

They all nod, mumbling in agreement.

“Okay then. I’ll text you when we’re going and for how long and what to bring. I think my parents will pay for all our tickets,” I say.

“I can buy my own,” Token offers.

“Yeah, my mom will probably want to buy mine,” Kyle adds.

“Fine by me.” I wave them away. “Continue your game,” I say.


	2. Tweek Tweak

**Man, I hate planes.**

The plane takes off at 12:30 p.m. That means we had to get to the airport at 10 a.m. Two hours and thirty minutes sitting around with ten teenage boys and only two adults must’ve been a handful. Overbearing. I feel for Mom for somehow keeping us all under control. She must have magic. It wouldn’t surprise me. Finally, it’s time to board. I don’t know how long it takes to gather us up, but it takes a while thanks to Clyde and Stan and Kyle going over to the food courts not five minutes ago. When we’re all regrouped—which I think takes ten minutes and makes anxiety roll around in my stomach—we grab our carry-ons and walk through the gate.

Dad leads us to the middle of the plane. Being in the metal tube already makes me feel claustrophobic and dizzy. He points to four rows of seats. Three on the left, one on the right. “These are our seats. On the left, rows fourteen through sixteen. On the right we have row fifteen,” Dad says.

Dad and Mom sit in row sixteen. I beeline for fifteen, claiming the middle seat because I’ve always felt safer in the middle. Craig immediately sits beside me on my right by default. As Clyde, Token, and Jimmy file into the row in front of us, Butters stands at our row, knocking his knuckles together, staring at his shoes.

“Is—is it alright if I can sit with you fellas?” he asks sheepishly.

“Yeah! Sure!” I exclaim. Craig and I lift our feet onto our seats to let Butters through. He slides in, taking the window seat. I avoid looking out of it. Just picturing it in my mind makes me sweat. “Uh, Butters?”

He looks at me.

“Can you close the window please? I’m paranoid about it,” I explain.

So he does. In the aisle across from ours sits Stan at the aisle seat (so he can run to the bathroom if he gets too nauseous), Kyle, and Kenny at the window seat. Cartman sits behind us with my parents since no one wanted to sit next to him. Which I don’t think he minds much since he’s not sitting next to Kyle, or anyone else who can provoke him. Which is everyone.

It’s been three days since I asked all my friends if they wanted to come on the trip to LA. We’re staying for five days in my parents’ Venice Beach house. That means I’m going to stay in the same building as Eric Cartman for _five_ days. I wouldn’t have invited him along, but since his mom and Clyde’s dad got married in seventh grade, it’s been difficult to go places without him.

My already racing heart races faster. I hate airplanes. My grip on Craig’s hand tightens. He brings me closer to his chest. He dips his head, brushing his lips against mine. I let go of his hand to hold him against me. I peck at his lips, his arms twisting around my waist.

In front of us, someone snickers. I pull back from Craig, looking to the row of seats in front of us. Clyde points his phone at us. “You guys are so cute,” he says.

I cover the camera. Craig flips him off. “Stop it, Clyde. You’re being annoying,” he snaps.

A hand shoots up from the middle seat, gripping Clyde’s red shirt. “Clyde, sit down,” Token demands.

Clyde pouts but disappears into his seat. Craig rolls his eyes before smiling at me. He lurches forward to continue kissing me, but the pilot’s voice erupts from the speakers. The pilot goes through the motions and instructions and safety stuff. I mostly tune it out due to my panicking even though I probably shouldn’t since it’s about _safety._  My thoughts go: _What if the plane crashes? What if there are terrorists on the plane and try to bomb it? What if the plane crashes into the ocean and no one ever finds our bodies? Oh, God I can die in this metal tube!_

From behind me, I feel a hand on my head. I turn around to see Mom smiling at me. Her blue-green eyes are calm like the sea. “It’s gonna be fine, pumpkin. Nothing will happen. We’ve done this countless times before, and everything went perfectly, right?” I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Okay, then. Remember to breathe,” she instructs. “Do you want to take a Xanax?”

My doctor prescribed it to me back when I was ten. Mom had told my new therapist about my panic attacks, and how they were especially bad when we flew in a plane. She suggested talking to my doctor about Xanax. I knew about the drug at the time, and how it was extremely addictive. I even knew a few sixth graders who took the stuff without doctor approval. At the time, I refused to take it because I’d just found out my dad drugged his coffee with meth and that I’d drank some despite my mom’s attempt to get me away from the stuff. I found it hard to trust my parents at the time, so I chose to deal with the panic attacks. At twelve, my trust had been regained by my mother, who was persistent on having me trust her again. I’m fine with taking 0.25 milligrams of Xanax now. Only if Mom gives it to me though. I don’t trust my father at all. And it’s not like he’s done anything to earn it back. And either way, Mom only lets me take it when we’re flying since she’d prefer to calm my anxiety without the dependency of medication.

I nod, opening my palm. Mom drops a pill in my hand and gives me a cup of water. I throw back the pill and the water as quickly as I can, in case Kenny might see. Because I know he has a problem with drugs and stuff. I face forward again, taking Craig’s hand. He, too, reminds me to breathe, going through the technique with me. He had researched ways to help me calm down, and some of the tips included distracting myself and assuring myself that while I’m afraid of dying because of a plane crash, I have to remember that I’ll be fine and the plane won’t crash. Kinda hard to accomplish but I’ll manage.

Before I know it, we’re in the air. I feel like I’m already floating on the waves in Venice Beach, soaking up the sunlight thanks to the drug. I’m actually calm for once. Clyde, Token, and Jimmy rest on the heads on their seats to talk to us. Butters tells me about how in fourth grade Cartman tricked him into thinking he was a robot from Japan. He got him back by exposing a video of him, and I vaguely remember that. Craig told them that distracting me could help with my anxiety. Jimmy cracks jokes, and at each one, whether it’s funny or not, I burst out laughing. Clyde and Token show me memes they find hilarious. I can’t stop laughing. So much so that I can’t breathe. My lungs hurt and my chest aches but that’s okay because I’m distracted. _Why was I even so afraid of flying anyway? You can’t even feel the plane moving._

Somehow the conversation between me and my friends shifted from how excited we were to an incident that happened when we were ten. We were almost finished with the school year, and I was more than eager to see fourth grade come to a close.

Clyde rests his head on his crossed arms and recounts, “Do you guys remember that time in fourth grade when Craig tried to propose to Tweek with a Ring Pop at recess?”

Craig turns bright red, flipping off our friends in front of us. I make a noise of disapproval, forcing his finger back into his fist. He looks at me sympathetically, planting a kiss at the top of my head.

Token chuckles, “Yeah. It was a strawberry Ring Pop.”

“A-and Craig was rejected. Hard,” Jimmy puts in.

“Hey, not true,” I whine. My words slur together thanks to the Xanax. “I didn’t outright reject him. I told him we were ten. Getting married at ten would be way too much pressure, man. But I accepted the Ring Pop, so that has to count for something.”

The three boys in front of us snicker into their hands. Clyde says, “You sound fucking drunk, dude.”

“Gee, thanks, dickhead. I couldn’t tell,” I snap playfully.

Next to me, Butters offers, “I think I have a picture of Craig on one knee, holdin’ out the Ring Pop to you.”

“Show us,” Token insists.

So Butters pulls his phone from his pocket, plugging in his passcode. He goes to his gallery, scrolling through probably a million pictures. Of his friends and scenic photos of landscapes and sunsets combined.

Finally, after what feels like a thousand years, Butters gets to his old pictures of us back in fourth grade. I watch him scan the fetus photos of us until he brings up that fateful picture. The snow has melted almost completely, and the grass is actually green. The sky is blue, cloudless. I remember how oddly warm that day was. But maybe that was because I was blushing so hard. The center focus of the photo is Craig and me. Craig’s down on one knee, holding up a red Ring Pop to my equally red face. I have an awkward smile on my mouth. I recall my nervous laughter before pointing out we had eight years ahead of us before we could legally get married. In the background, Asian girls and our female classmates are smiling and squealing and some were crying tears of joy. All the guys are either doing something else or just looking on.

The memory of it all makes me laugh. My giggles are enough to get my friends join me. Craig tries to keep his laughter under control, but his face is getting red from keeping it in. So he opens his mouth and his laughter joins ours. If it’s even possible, more giggles fly out my mouth because of Craig’s gross laugh. It’s full of snorts and low chuckles that sound absolutely dorky.

Craig’s seat jerks forward. He stops laughing, whipping around to the seat behind him. We all crane our necks to see what the fuss is about. Cartman stares up at him, scowling but mostly looking tired. “Would you assholes shut up? Some people are trying to get some sleep here!” he exclaims.

Craig flips him off and sits back down. We’re silent before giggling quietly once more.

“What kind of conversation are we having anyway? Why are we talking about some dumb thing I did back in fourth grade?” Craig asks. His cheeks are still pink.

“Oh,” Clyde says. “That’s because you get all embarrassed afterwards. Also, it’s a good memory. You guys will be eighteen in four years, which I think is the perfect time to start planning the wedding. Can I be your best man, Craig?”

Craig’s face reddens all over again. “Stop talking, Clyde,” he grumbles. I giggle at his embarrassment, kissing his cheek to provoke him.

“Didn’t Cartman record the whole thing on his phone?” Jimmy wonders.

“Yeah, I think he did. He always gets wrapped up in other people’s relationships but can’t maintain one of his own,” says Clyde.

From behind Craig’s seat comes, “Ay! Quit gossiping about me!”

Collectively, we all sigh and roll our eyes. This is going to be a long flight. A long, almost two hour, flight. A flight attendant comes by and tells Clyde, Token, and Jimmy to sit down properly. And with that, our conversation is ended. I pull my earbuds from my backpack and plug them into my phone. I put on some music that makes me feel happy and forget my anxieties. Slowly, I slip into peaceful slumber.


	3. Craig Tucker

**I'm a Tweek enthusiast.**

I drag my luggage behind me as our group walks to the front of the LAX. People mill about with suitcases in tow, wheels squeaking on the linoleum. Already, I can feel the heat difference here from South Park. Back home, it was cool enough to wear jeans and a light jacket, but here, in Los Angeles, my clothes stick to my sweating skin. I’m thankful Tweek reminded us over the group chat to wear shorts and T-shirts today.

Ahead of me, Tweek’s parents talk, and I can’t help but overhear their conversation, despite all the conversation around me. Not even Tweek pays attention to his parents because he’s speaking excitedly to Clyde, Token, Jimmy, and Butters. Mrs. Tweak says, “We need a car to fit all of us. I don’t want to have to rent two.”

“I’ll have to see if they have big enough cars at the rental place,” Mr. Tweak responds. “Wait outside while I get the car.” He speeds up his pace, leaving his luggage behind with his wife. Mr. Tweak disappears through the automatic doors.

Mrs. Tweak turns to us. “Boys,” she says, raising her voice over the conversations echoing throughout the airport. We all snap to attention like troops to their commanding officer. “Tweek’s dad just left to get a car, and we have to wait outside so we can see him when he comes by.”

Cartman groans. His brown hair is matted to his forehead, curling at the tips. Unlike me, he took off his hat, which I should probably do. The only person with their hat still on is Kyle, who looks miserable. “Do we  _ have  _ to wait outside? There’s air conditioning in here!” he complains.

Kyle jabs him with his elbow. “Quit whining, dumbass. We have to wait outside so we can see the car, like Mrs. Tweak just said if you listened!” he hisses.

Instead of firing back, Cartman sticks his tongue out at him. Clyde sighs, shaking his head. I guess he has to deal with this shit every day. Mrs. Tweak starts walking again, leading us outside. The glass doors slide open, a gush of warm air blowing in our faces. She waves us over to benches to the sides of the door. I plunk down onto the bench, taking off my chullo. I shove it into my backpack. Tweek sits down next to me, his head on my shoulder. I run my fingers through his hair.

I snort, smiling to myself. Tweek looks up at me, brows furrowed. “What?” His speech is still slurred, which makes him even cuter.

I shake my head. I kiss his forehead, pushing back his hair even though it already sticks up on its own. “You know, whenever you cut your hair, you look like Thor in the  _ Ragnarok _ movie,” I remark.

He blushes scarlet. “Shut up,” he mumbles, fiddling with the hem of my NASA shirt before his skinny fingers disappear underneath. Before I can react, he tickles me mercilessly. I burst out laughing, trying to push him away. He keeps going, straddling my hips. I’m locked into place, suffering under Tweek’s fingers that are impossible to catch.

“Please—stop,” I beg between gasping breaths. Tears line my eyes. Tweek grins evilly at me, eyes alight with triumph.

Further down the bench, Cartman taunts, “Look, you guys. Tweek and Craig are making love!”

I don’t waste my energy flipping him off. Tweek ignores him, but his fingers settle on my stomach. He stares at me, the glint in his eyes switching from evil to mischievous. He pitches forward, his mouth is on mine. I close my eyes and tilt my head to the side, tasting his lips. I edge my tongue into his mouth. His tongue glides against mine, sending shivers down my spine. He tastes like coffee. His finger hooks through the belt loops of my shorts, pulling me closer. His other hand curls into my hair, cradling my neck. I hold his waist against mine.

When Tweek breaks the kiss after a minute, resting his head on mine, I turn to Cartman, smirking. “Good enough for you, fatass?”

He harrumphs, looking away. “Yeah, yeah, you two gays are in love and whatnot. Point made,” he grumbles.

Everyone snickers into their hands. Tweek moves from my face to attack my neck. He nips at my skin. I bite my lip to hold back a groan or worse. We should probably stop before we embarrass each other. I rub my nose against the underside of his jaw. “We’re in public, babe,” I remind him. He whines but pulls away. He moves off my lap, sitting more appropriately next to me. He drops his head back on my shoulder as we stare ahead at the street.

Cars crawl past, people walk to and fro. Mrs. Tweak leans on a pillar, facing the road, sunglasses perched on her nose. I tune in to the conversation held between the rest of my friends. Funny how Tweek matters to me more than any of them could. But I’ve always known that. I only care about Tweek and Stripe. Nothing else can compare to them.

“Nah, being yourself is always the best way to go. People are ten times cuter when they’re talking about something they love,” Stan says.

I roll my eyes, scoffing, looking past Tweek at the Marsh boy. He doesn’t meet my gaze, but I’m tempted to call his bullshit. Stan pretends to be someone he’s not whenever he meets someone new. Maybe that’s why he can’t keep Wendy around for longer than two weeks. Because he doesn’t wanna be himself. He’s a fucking hypocrite.

Kyle snorts. “Unless it’s Hitler,” he grunts. His face is as red as his hair from the heat. Or it would be if he took off his hat, which he should probably do.

Not looking up from his phone, Cartman adds, “Yeah, then they’re nein times cuter.”

Kyle’s jaw drops. Cartman glances up, snickering. “Cartman, I am fucking  _ done  _ with you,” he snarls.

Everyone else laughs. Tweek giggles into my shoulder. I chuckle quietly so only he can hear it. I hate my laugh. I rest my head on top of his. “C’mon, Kyle. You gotta admit it was pretty funny,” I say.

“Yeah. That was p-pretty good, Cartman,” Jimmy compliments.

“At least some people appreciate my sense of humor,” he says. He glares pointedly at Kyle next to him.

Kyle sneers. “You mean belittling people and cursing?  _ That  _ sense of humor?”

“Yes,” Cartman affirms.

Kenny shakes his head, smirking. Not even  _ he _ has his orange paraka on and he  _ always  _ has it on. Him and Butters are leaning against a pillar. “You’re the worst, dude,” he beams.

“I have to deal with him every day with no escape,” Clyde says. “If you think he’s bad right now, you should see him at home.”

Cartman smiles, batting his eyelashes. It would look cute and innocent if it wasn’t him doing it. “Aw, c’mon, Clyde. You love me,” he jokes. Clyde just scowls, looking the scariest I’ve ever seen him, which to be honest, isn’t very scary. Clyde’s like a giant teddy bear, but I’d never admit that aloud, alive or dead.

I remember Clyde coming to school that morning in fifth grade bawling. I was too disgusted with his overflowing tears to ask what was wrong. Token and Jimmy got that out of him. And when he said that his dad was dating Cartman’s mom, I only felt pity for him. We all circled him, patting his back, trying to comfort him. Then Kyle ran up to us, Stan and Kenny in tow. Kyle said breathlessly that he heard the news and he would do anything to keep Cartman from doing something to Clyde. I don’t know if he was assured, but he nodded nonetheless. In seventh grade, Mr. Donovan and Cartman’s mom got married after dating for two years.

When eighth grade rolled around, Clyde and Cartman magically found a way to get along, only a year after the wedding  _ and  _ him moving into Clyde’s house. I have to admit I thought it would take longer than a year, but that just meant Cartman felt less the need to murder Clyde. Now in the summer, they get along as best as Cartman can get along with someone.

Tweek’s knee bumps against mine. I glance at him. He stares at his hands folded in his lap. His cheeks are pink. “I love you,” he whispers. He still doesn’t look up at me.

I smile, putting my lips to his shoulder. “Hey. I love you too,” I whisper back. He finally looks at me and smiles. I love his smile. Tweek’s smile is brighter than the sun, but safer to look at. Starlight dances in his eyes as he gazes into mine. Who needs to go to space to see the constellations when I have them right in front of me?

Someone clears their throat. On his feet next to Tweek, Token raises a dark eyebrow at us. “You two coming?” he asks. He jabs a finger at the gray van parked along the side of the street.

I notice all the others standing, lining up at the trunk to put their stuff away. That was faster than I expected. It’s only been about twenty minutes. In my experience, renting a car and driving it back takes an hour at least. Kyle and Stan jump into the car. I pull Tweek to his feet. We join the line, stuck behind Token. When we’re finally at the front, Mr. Tweak takes our luggage and hoists them into the trunk, where others are piled up. Tweek and I round the car, climbing into the middle row, next to Butters again. I’ll always feel bad for him. He’s an outcast, even if he is technically part of Stan’s gang. They only invite him to certain events, and that’s only when they see the need to use him. It’s just another reason to prove that Stan’s gang is just a cluster of dickheads. At least Kenny tries to keep him company. Key word being  _ tries. _

When we’re all in the car, Mr. Tweak starts driving. Cartman sits in the front row to feel the AC right in his chubby face. Clyde and Jimmy sit to his left, chatting amongst themselves. In the back row, Kenny, Kyle, and Stan hold a heated conversation about how to say “New Orleans.” They’re idiots. Who cares about pronunciation? As long as people can understand what the fuck you’re saying. Token sits with them. Tweek’s twisted around in his seat to talk to him about music. They’re the most musically talented in my friend group. Music is really what they bonded over.

I’m fine with not talking. I like thinking better. I play with Tweek’s hair. I used to be able to wrap a full lock around my finger, but now it slips out. The top of his head is still long. Long enough to stick up in every direction. It’s Tweek’s signature look. If he got a buzzcut, I probably wouldn’t recognize him. The sides are what’s shorter. He purposely gets it cut like that so he isn’t tempted to pull on his hair when he’s stressed. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him stressed to the point of passing out in a long time. He’s made progress, and I’m proud of him.

The car smells like pine and sweat. “Mrs. Tweak, can you please open the windows a bit? It smells bad in here,” I request.

“Of course,” she says. The windows open just a crack, but it’s enough to waft out the foul odors. “Also,” I start, “how long is the drive to the house?”

“About thirty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Tweak says, “Tweek, you should tell your friends about the plan this week.”

Tweek sits up straight. “Oh, yeah. So today, since it’s already two-ish, we can just hang out around the house. We have a pool in the backyard, and it’s hot enough to go swimming—”

“You have a  _ pool _ ?!” Kenny screeches.

“Yes.” Tweek continues, “When we get hungry, we can get pizza or something, then watch a movie. Tomorrow we’ll go to Disneyland. On Wednesday, we can go to the beach, since it’s only a five minute walk from the house. Honestly, I don’t know why we have a pool if the beach is so close, but whatever. Thursday, we’ll go to Universal. Friday, we fly back home at 5 p.m. so we can either stay at the beach or the house until then. Then we fly back home in time for Fourth of July. That’s the plan.”

“This is going to be the best week ever,” Clyde screams. He’s too enthusiastic. It gives me a headache.

“I can’t believe you have a pool,” Kenny mutters, mostly to himself.

“Tweek, how rich are you exactly? I thought you were just like the rest of us with your house back in South Park, but now I’m rethinking that. You have a house in California with a pool, for Christ’s sake!” Cartman throws up his hands.

Token intructs, “Don’t listen to him, Tweek. He’ll try to take advantage of you.”

Conversation still zaps in the air like electricity when my eyes begin to feel heavy. Tweek’s hair is soft. I’m sure it’s made of gold fibers. It looks like it. I leave his hair alone, only to snake my arms around his waist. I lay my head on his back, closing my eyes. Tweek’s like a human heater. He’s always so warm. After what seems like only a few minutes, I feel a hand on my head. I open my eyes into Tweek’s. “We’re almost there,” he says.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my face. “Did I fall asleep or something?” I croak. My voice confirms it before Tweek can.

“Yeah. But we’re in the neighborhood.”

I look out the window. Past it are square houses. They look weird, with their flat roofs and pavements clear of snow. Their lawns are manicured, not a blade of grass out of place. The van slows and turns into a driveway. Everyone buzzes with excitement. Even my heart beats a little faster. I’ve never seen Tweek’s Los Angeles house in person. I’ve never seen the exterior of it. Only a few bits of the inside. Even through the screen, it was impressive. The car stops and the engine turns off.

Tweek undoes his seat belt and tugs open the door to the van. He leaps out onto the driveway, stretching, but grinning. “Welcome to the Venice Beach house, I guess,” he chuckles. I unbuckle my seat belt and walk up to him. I look at the house in front of me. My jaw drops.

The house is just as modern looking and squarish as the others on the neighborhood. There are huge square windows lining the sides. The color of the house is gray, with a black roof and black steps leading up to the towering double doors. I can tell it’s a  _ very _ expensive place. It’s definitely not what I’m accustomed to back in South Park. It’s definitely not what  _ we’re  _ accustomed to back in South Park.

The rest of the guys stand frozen in a semicircle, all mouths agape and eyes bugging out. Their eyes flutter over the house, taking in its magnificence. Tweek snickers at their reactions. He pokes each of us in the smalls of our backs. “C’mon, doofuses. Get your shit so we can go inside. It’s hot out here,” he says, scrunching up his nose.

Still in a daze, I follow him to the trunk of the car to collect my luggage. Eventually, the rest do the same. At the front door, Mrs. Tweak takes keys from her purse and pushes open the doors. And we thought the front of the house was impressive. The interior also bleeds modern. The furniture is minimalistic and white. The walls are a light gray. To the left is a white piano illuminated by the sunlight coming in through the windows, and the living room. There’s a flat screen TV with a bookcase next to it. I see Tweek’s PS4 amongst the various book titles. The marble counter faces the kitchen. There’s a glass door, where I have a feeling the pool is. To my right is a narrow space with a single chair and a few pictures. The window at the end of it overlooks the small garden outside.

“Would you idiots snap out of it and just come inside already?” Tweek stands by the staircase, luggage in hand. “My mom says to put our stuff down in my room first. Then I can show you around.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tweak must’ve already ventured upstairs in my stupor. They’re not down here or outside. We trail after Tweek up the wooden stairs. Luggages thump on the steps. Tweek moves too fast for me to scrutinize the landing. He kicks open the first door on the left. Our party squeezes past each other to get into the room first. I’m first.

“Just put your stuff by the window,” Tweek instructs.

The window. He says it so casually. In reality, the window is a bay window overlooking the beach that’s only a five minute walk away. People lounge around on the sand, sunbathing and swimming in the ocean.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Kyle kneels on the bench sunk into the window, face pressed up against the glass. His breath fogs up because he’s so close. Stan climbs up next to him to admire the view. Kenny shoves himself onto the bench, followed by Butters. Clyde pushes through. Token and Jimmy stand on their toes to catch a glimpse over all the heads. Cartman, on the other hand, stands at the end of the bench, grinning deviously. I can already see what’s gonna happen before it happens. He extends his fat arms and shoves all the boys off the bench. It’s the domino effect. Clyde tips first, then Butters, and so on. I think it’s pretty funny until Kenny topples over on Tweek at the opposite end. He lets out a shriek before he’s dogpiled by all our friends.

“Get off me, asswipes! I can’t breathe!” he gasps. I take his hand and attempt to pull him out from the pile of bodies. Token takes his other hand to help me get him out. When he’s lying on the floor spread-eagled free from the bodies, he sighs loudly. “Let me just show you around,” he says weakly.

Kyle stands and whirls around to Cartman. He sticks a finger in his chest, scowling. “Fatass, you will  _ not  _ ruin this trip. Tweek was nice enough to invite  _ you  _ of all people, and this is no way to thank him!” he shouts.

Cartman puts his hands up in surrender. He rolls his eyes. “God, sorry,  _ Mom _ . I didn’t mean to piss you off,” he bites back. He looks at Tweek and genuinely says, “Thanks, though, Tweek. I know I’m not the nicest to you—or anyone—but I’m glad you invited me.”

We’re all silent, waiting for him to point a chubby finger in Tweek’s face laughing,  _ “Ha ha, fooled ya!”  _ but he doesn’t.

I squeeze Tweek’s hand since he’s frozen as an ice sculpture. He blinks his pretty eyes three times before twitching. “Oh, uh, sure… Cartman,” he says.

I think Kyle is the most stunned of us all. His finger has gone limp on Cartman’s chest, eyes wide. His mouth opens and closes like a fish before he stutters out, “Wh-what’s going on with you, Cartman?”

He shrugs. “I’ve changed.”

“You can’t change  _ that  _ much in a span of one year,” Stan says. His face is scrunched up, obviously confused. “Especially you.” He says it uncertainly.

“Whatever,” Cartman says.

Everyone takes a minute to wrap their heads around what the fuck just happened. Tweek recovers first. He stammers, “Um. I’m glad you like my room?” He says it as a question. I would too.

Slowly, everyone’s mind catches up to their bodies. I scan the room. The first thing that catches my eye is the white dresser that has two frames sitting on it. One has a picture of Tweek and all our friends in fifth grade. I stand next to Tweek with my arm around his shoulders. I remember that day. Mr. and Mrs. Tweak took the picture before Tweek and them left for Los Angeles for the whole summer. I remember being  _ super  _ upset that break. The second is of Tweek and his mom, probably from the last time they were here. They’re at the beach; Mrs. Tweak is giving her son a piggyback ride. Their faces are paused mid-laugh.

“What’s the Wi-fi password?” Token asks. He always asks good questions. All of us pull out our phones.

“Coffee0817,” he replies. “With a capitalized  _ C.” _

I type it in. “Your favorite drink and your birthday?” I need confirmation.

“Yeah. It’s the two easiest things my parents can remember.”

_ Funny _ , I think without thinking it’s funny at all.  _ And here I was under the impression his dad always forgot his birthday. _

My sight travels around the rest of the room as Stan asks, “How come we didn’t just come here for your birthday?” The walls are painted green with a few posters hung up. The Harry Potter one and the one with Taylor Swift stand out the most. A piano carpet covers the floor. A desk stands to the left of the bed, with a white office chair tucked into it, along with a bedside table on the right. In the bay window bench are colorful spines of books.

Tweek answers, “By the time my birthday hits, school will already be in.” He shudders.

My own skin crawls. I’m not excited for high school, and I know Tweek’s stressed out as fuck about it.

Clyde whistles lowly. “This is a nice room, Tweek. You get to sleep here every summer?”

Tweek nods. “This was my mom’s room before she moved to Colorado. She painted the walls when her and Dad first came here when I was three.”

“Damn, dude. This is a really nice room. And the  _ view _ ,” Stan breathes. He’s connected to the glass of the window.

Tweek laughs. “You should see my parents’ room.” He leads us out and we follow him like puppies on leashes. “You guys are too easily impressed. For real.”

The room across the way is  _ much  _ bigger than Tweek’s. The bed is king-sized, the dressers covered with photos of the Tweak family. The vanity, obviously his mom’s, has an empty table top, except for a small picture frame. It presents an image of her when she was probably in her twenties and a one-year-old Tweek. She carries him, a big smile on her lips. Baby Tweek’s head is on her breast, giving the camera a tiny, toothy grin. Baby Tweek is so fucking cute it makes my heart melt. Above the vanity is a small frame holding red baby shoes, which I’m guessing were Tweek’s. There’s a bay window here too, but also a floor-to-ceiling window across an entire wall. These overlook the view of the city in difference to Tweek’s window. On the wall next to the door is a mural of a girl with blue hair.

“Did your mom paint this?” I ask Tweek.

He rests his head on my shoulder, explaining. “Yeah. We both did. We have two murals actually. One here in her room and the other on the side wall outside. I’ll show you that later. Like I said, we come to this house for cheesy bonding, but also for me to relax a little. Painting takes my mind off my worries, so we paint. It’s a combination of bonding and relaxation.” He rolls his eyes, smiling. “It’s fun.” I kiss his forehead. His arms slide around my waist. Raising his voice, he says, “Let’s go to the loft now.”

Like mindless androids, we march into the loft single file. That’s a lie. We glob up to crowd around poor Tweek. The loft is a loft—tan walls, computer desk, and a makeshift art studio by the balcony. Tweek leads us to this very balcony, pushing open the glass door. We squash onto the deck, looking down at the pool below. There are exclamations of awe. Tweek doesn’t bother explaining.

Next stop is the bathroom. Tweek sweeps his arm across the space. It’s a bathroom. What do you want me to say about it? There was a toilet, sink and porcelain clawfoot bathtub.

“This is the bathroom. That bath’s where I go to escape and read a good book. Of course, I don’t fill it with water when I go to read. I just sit there like I do at home.”

Yes, he does do that. Sometimes I’ll go over to his house and find his bedroom vacant. I’ll knock on the bathroom door. He’ll tell me to come in. Then I’ll find him reading a book in the empty bathtub fully clothed.

He closes the door. He points to the floor. “Downstairs.”

Downstairs we go. Tweek presents us another bathroom—this one with an all exclusive shower!—the living room which we’ve seen when we first walked in, and the kitchen. It’s nice and all, but we’re all shoving each other aside to get outside to the pool. Heat sweeps over me, sucking my breath from my lungs. The pool lightly laps against the concrete sides in the gentle breeze.

Clyde sticks his hand in the water. “I want to jump in,” he whispers. He has this intense look on his face like his whole life depends on it.

Cartman put his foot on his brother’s back. “I’ll do it!” he volunteers eagerly.

Clyde swats his leg off. Token sticks a toe in the pool. Cartman reaches down and flicks water at Butters. Kenny begins stripping off his clothes. Tweek stops them all. “We still have stuff to do! Not yet!” he says.

Everyone shrugs, following him back into the house. On the side of the house as promised is a mural of the city. Tweek explains that he went up onto the roof of the house and took a picture. He showed it to his mom, who told him it would be cool to paint it on the side of the house. It’s a cartoon take on the tops if the houses in the neighborhood.

After walking around the house in zig-zags, we sit on the couches and floor. His parents are downstairs now, observing stuff in the cupboards in the kitchen. We’re talking about nonsense until Mrs. Tweak approaches us.

“Boys, we need to figure out sleeping arrangements. You’ve seen Tweek’s room, and I don’t think ten teenage boys will fit in there. You can sleep down here in the living room, or upstairs in the loft. There’s a TV down here, though. If I were you, I’d sleep here,” she advises.

We agree. Sleeping downstairs with the gigantic flat screen TV does seem like the better option.

Mrs. Tweak claps her hands together. “It’s settled then. We don’t have enough blankets to put on the floor for you all, but we can go to the store to buy air mattresses. We need to go shopping anyway. So pair up with someone you tolerate enough to share a queen-size air mattress with. Two of you can take the sofas,” she tells us.

My hand snatches Tweek’s arm, pulling him to my chest. Cartman shoves Butters and Kenny off the sofa. “I call this sofa!” he announces, sprawling his limbs over the space.

Token says to Jimmy on the loveseat, “I think you should take this couch. It’ll be easier to get up if you need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

Jimmy thanks him. Clyde and Token pair up, Stan and Kyle, Butters and Kenny. Tweek’s parents herd us into the van. We click on our seat belts and drive to Target.


	4. Eric Cartman

**Pour some sugar on me.**

Normally, I’d rather stay home and sit in front of the TV playing first person shooter games and eating Twizzlers, but I’m not home right now. Instead I’m in Los Angeles with all my stupid friends at Target. Four boxed up air mattresses are piled up in the cart pushed by Mr. Tweak. His wife opens up freezers and tosses frozen waffles in with the mattresses. We loiter around, taking in the details of the store. Well, I’m not because that’s stupid as fuck. The only thing I can register is that it’s refreshingly cold in this spot. It’s the only reason we aren’t wandering off. Or it’s the only reason _I’m_ not wandering off. Otherwise I would be.

Mrs. Tweak closes the door, turning to us. “You know you can go over to the candy aisle and get some snacks for tonight, right?” she asks. She says something else, but I’m not listening anymore.

We jolt to our feet, probably feeling stupid we’d been waiting around for so long when we could’ve been in paradise in the candy aisle. I’m in the lead to the candy, and I don’t even know where it is. At other Targets I’ve so rarely been to, the candy is always near the frozen foods. I crane my neck into each aisle. Finally, I find the Holy Grail of candy aisles. Or what _looks_ like a candy aisle. To me, it’s all blurry, but the colors tell all. Sweets of all kinds line the sides, stretching all the way down. My mouth waters.

Smirking, Kyle remarks, “You’re such a fatass.” He strides into the aisle, surveying the goods. So are the others.

I mimic him in a falsetto voice, rolling my eyes. “Excuse you, Kyle, but I am _thick,_ not _fat,_ ” I snap. Everyone in the aisle laughs. Even though I am _not_ fat. At least, not as fat as I used to be.

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. Craig snorts, Tweek snickers. Jimmy nods in approval, Token shakes his head smirking. Clyde facepalms, probably regretting teaching me that word.

“Keep telling yourself that, Cartman,” Kyle mutters. He taps his lip, looking for some suitable candy for his disgusting tastes. I sincerely hope the aisle topples over so he can suffocate under the sweets.

I ignore him with my head held high as I scan the aisle. As much as I’ve changed, my feud with Kyle hasn’t. It’s an inconvenience for me, but he just can’t resist picking fights.

I do a 180 looking for Tweek. Naturally, he’s standing hand in hand with Craig. They’re inseparable. It’s inspirational and annoying at the same time. Tweek’s gotten taller since elementary (a few inches taller than me, much to my annoyance), and so has Craig. Craig’s always been tall—stringbean, noodle limb tall—and it looks like it’ll stay that way. Some things never change. I approach the couple. They glance at me, suspicion in their eyes. Goddamnit, will people _ever_ stop looking at me like that? Can’t they tell I’ve changed?

“How much candy can we get?” I wonder.

There’s a pause. Craig stares at me like I’m stupid. “You weren’t listening to Mrs. Tweak, huh?” he deadpans.

I scoff at him, rolling my eyes.

Tweek twitches. “Like three,” he answers. “But under two dollars each, since we can always come back and get more.”

“Okay.” I walk off. Only three candies. Under two dollars. That means no king size. That’s torture. Or maybe I can get a king size, but only two of them. Lame.

I hone in on the blurry figure of Butters looking at the chocolates in his Odd Future teal T-shirt and cargo shorts. He got the shirt not because he likes their music, not because of the hype, but because of how it _looks._ He liked the color, and he didn’t even know what the OF stood for until Clyde told him. But anyway. Maybe I can leach off of his candies. I stand next to him, pretending I’m studying a bag of Reese’s. Before, I used to hate Butters with every inch of my body, but much like Mom’s relationship status, that changed drastically. Butters used to be that annoying douchebag who helped me with my schemes, but now, I can’t. I physically, emotionally, and mentally _can’t._ I’ve gotten weak. I’ve turned into a weak fucking softie. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I care about him. I thought I was insane at first, but no. I’ve learned that change is inevitable. You can’t avoid it. I fucking hate it. And, oh boy, has my life gone through many changes.

Like he was reading my previous thoughts about leaching off his candy, Butters makes a spectacular impression of Craig by deadpanning, “No, you can’t have some of my candy, Eric.” He doesn’t even look at me! He’s still an asshole. That hasn’t changed.

I lay a hand on my chest in a joking manner, scoffing. “I am deeply offended you would think I would do something like that.”

Butters’ eyes flick to mine. “ _Sure_ you weren’t,” he says. A small smile creeps onto his face.

My hand drops. I smirk myself. “Okay, fine. You caught me. Now that I admitted it, can I _please_ have some of your Kit Kats?”

“No.”

I frown.

He continues, “Honestly, Eric, I dunno why I put up with you. Especially after all the numbers you did on me. You’ve never been particularly nice. Why should I do anythin’ for you anyway?”

He isn’t just referencing the candy. He’s hinting at the shit he’s put up with since seventh grade. And previous years before. That too. In all honesty, if anyone else knew about it— _it_ being shit that went down in seventh grade—they would say it definitely _wasn’t_ the worst thing I’ve done to him. And yes, I’ve done a few numbers on Butters, but seventh grade was _nothing_ compared to fourth grade. If anything, he should be _thanking_ me for the opportunity I gave him. Well now I’m lying to myself. If it weren’t for him, I would probably be still having identity issues. (To be honest, I still am, but the water isn’t as murky.) I should be thanking him. And I have. Countless times. With much reluctance. But I still thanked him!

My voice drops to a whisper, “Dammit, Butters. You told me you weren’t counting, and I’ve told you millions of times I’m sorry for fourth grade and shit. I’ll say it again, _I’m sorry_.”

“Two words ain’t gonna do nothin’ to change the past.”

I scowl, dragging Butters by the neck of his Odd Future shirt around the back of the aisle. He yelps as he stumbles over his feet to keep up with me. I shove him against the shelves, glowering. He’s alarmed. I can see it in his pale blue eyes. My mind short circuits. It goes blank. I stare at Butters’ face. His left eye is paler blue, half blind because of a ninja star incident back in fourth grade. That number was not on me, thankfully. His skin is smooth and white. I lean forward, pressing my mouth to his. He freezes for a minute before melting into me. I love that feeling—the feeling of someone slumping into me. I want more—I always do—but Butters slips out from under me.

He pouts at me. “You’re a bad boyfriend.”

I slap a hand over his mouth, hissing, “What did I tell you about using the B word in public?”

He shrugs, apologetic.

My hand slips down his face. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Does this mean I can have some of your candy?”

He sighs, nodding. “Just don’t eat all of it,” he says.

I’m about to kiss him again as a form of thanks, but Stan interrupts before anything can happen. Which I’m thankful for. No one can know. Ever. Stan glances between us, suspicion in his eyes. They land on me. “What are you doing to Butters?”

I huff. “Why does everyone think I’m doing something bad?” I march off, back into the candy aisle.

“Because you usually are,” Clyde says.

“Not helpful, _Clyde_ ,” I growl.

He shrugs at me. I’ve never had a brother until last spring, and let me just say it’s not as fun as I thought it’d be. Having a minion that lived with you? All the things you could order, and they would have to do it because you have shit on them that’ll get them grounded for weeks if you told on them! That’s a dream come true! Until they find something out about _you_ that they can use for blackmail.

Clyde quirks his brow at me, telling me silently, _I could tell everyone here right now and they’d all know your secret_. I turn, harrumphing, running a finger over the bags of candies. I’m not paying attention to them, but no one else can know that.

In seventh grade, a week after Mom and I moved into Clyde’s house, I had Butters over. Mom and Roger’s wedding had only happened two months prior. I was already hating life then, but it got worse when we moved. I decided to bring over the one person who could stand me: Butters. We were in my room, kissing. I remember how our fingers were tangled together because we didn’t know what the fuck to do with our hands. I had the door ajar since it was just us. Roger was working, Mom was out at her proper job, Clyde was with his friends. I didn’t bother with precautions. Until Clyde got home sooner than I expected and witnessed it all. I tackled him to the floor, my face burning.

“I didn’t see anything, I swear!” he shouted.

Lie, obviously. I dug my elbow further into his back. “Tell anyone, and I’ll turn you into chili,” I threatened.

Tears were starting to stream down his face. Butters was trying—and failing—to pry me off him. He was blabbering in that Butters way, but I tuned him out. I shooed him away. Clyde croaked, “I promise I won’t. Now get off me.”

A hand on my shoulder brings me back to the present. I look to my right. Butters. He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. I lightly push him away. “Don’t look so concerned,” I mumble.

His features relax, returning to that natural, happy face that makes me want to throw up. In a good way. The way Stan does when Wendy gets too close. “Let’s go,” he says. He leads me out the aisle, collecting into the group everyone else has formed. Tweek’s parents are at the head of it. Everyone’s in a double line with a partner at their shoulder. Try to guess who’s walking with who. I’m stuck with Butters, acting like I’m annoyed even though on the inside I’m… happy? I don’t know. My emotions aren’t exactly in order yet.

My arms are cradling my candy. Butters loops his empty arm with mine. I want to shake him off, but I resist. I throw a glance at him that reads, _I swear to God, Butters, if anyone notices._ He continues to smile. I can hear his voice in my mind reminding me, _We’re at the back of the line. Who’s gonna notice?_ He pecks my cheek. A blush spreads up my neck and through my face.

“How come you didn’t wanna share a mattress with me?” he whispers.

My face is still red, maybe even more so thanks to the question. I lower my voice. “As much as I adore you, I’d rather have a couch to myself. Plus, it’d be suspicious if I did share a mattress with you.” I pause, gritting my teeth. Now my face is green with envy. “You have _Kenny_ anyway.”

Butters’ smile flickers from happy to amused. “You’re not… jealous, are you, Eric?” I can hear the taunting in his voice. This is what happens when he’s around bad influences like me.

Instead of answering, I spit out louder this time, “Kenny’s a motherfucking man-whore.”

Butters drops my arm when Kenny turns around and slides through Token and Jimmy to get to us. “I am no man-whore,” he says. “But feel free to call me a fuckboy.”

I roll my eyes. He laughs. Butters giggles. They all suck.

I starfish on the couch so no one else can try to sit down. The obnoxious buzz of the generator blowing air into the last mattress is giving me a headache. It’s Clyde and Token’s mattress being filled. And it’s going up slowly. I watch the sides rise tiny centimeters every minute. Out of nowhere, a weight is dropped on my gut. The air whooshes out of my lungs.

I glare at Butters sitting innocently on my stomach like I’m not on the couch. He’s talking to Kenny, who’s stretched out on the floor. He’s leaning on his elbows, only in his swim shorts. We all are. After Clyde’s mattress is completed, we can jump in. I don’t know _why_ we have to wait. It’s fucking stupid, but I don’t wanna take the risk of Tweek banishing me from here forever, so I let it happen. And Butters doesn’t even acknowledge me in the slightest way! Not a touch, not a glance. Douchebag.

“Get the fuck off,” I wheeze.

No response. The conversation continues: “Yeah, I was thinking about going to Hawaii next summer. My parents will still refuse to come with me, but it is what it is,” Butters says.

Kenny scratches his ear. “Fuck, you deserve better parents.”

Butters shrugs, cheeks turning pink. “They’ve gotten better… kinda. They mostly just ignore me. And they ground me when I piss ‘em off too much.”

It’s true. They barely even look at him anymore.

“Still can’t breathe here,” I interject. They both ignore me. Fine. That’s fine. Then they’re _both_ douchebags.

Kenny continues, “That’s child neglect. They feed you, though, right?”

“Yeah, they do. And when they’re not home, they leave leftovers in the fridge for me.”

Fed up, I shove Butters off me. He shrieks as he tumbles right into Kenny’s lap. I stare up at the ceiling with no expression, nails digging into my palms, pretending not to care. I do my best to ignore Butters’ fumbling and Kenny’s suave recovery.

Kenny says, “It’s all good, Leo”—I hate how he calls him Leo—“You can keep sitting here if you like,” and I wanna sock him in the face.

More stammering comes from Butters. I risk a glance, seeing Butters red in the face, propping himself up on his hands that are dangerously near Kenny’s crotch. Kenny smirks, amused. My teeth grind together. He’s straight, and even if he is teasing, it’s pissing me off.

I jump to my feet, grabbing Butters by the arm. He still can’t force out any words. His brain is still malfunctioning. I stomp up the stairs and he stumbles along, tripping over his feet. I open up the balcony door, pulling out one of the chairs tucked into the chess table. The air is burning. I shove him into it. He lands with a thump and an “Oof.” He blinks up at me.

I’m fuming, smoke unfurling from my nostrils. Butters shrinks under my glare. He’s rubbing his knuckles together again, looking at his feet. Guilt is plain as day on his face.

I grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the chair. I lean down to him, my face inches from his. His eyes are wide. “Butters,” I say. The edges of his blonde hair flutter because of my breath. I fucking love his hair. In the dark or under light bulbs, it’s the color of butter, his namesake. In the sun, it’s icy as his eyes.

His lips part to blabber out an apology. I don’t let him. I slam my face to his. Butters makes a sound in the back of his throat, holding my head in both hands to bring me closer. His lips are soft—smooth and tender. Mine in contrast are chapped and callus. (Pun unintended. Can a person’s lips reflect their personality?) The side of his nose slides by mine. He smells like cotton candy. Fingers curl into my hair. My hands slide down Butters’ bare chest. His skin is so soft...

I hear a burst of chatter and laughter. Then a splash. I pull away slightly. They’re in the pool. Why is it predictable that they’d wait for everyone except us? Butters can tell my mind is straying. He scoots closer to me, further from the chair. My brain is stuck on him again. When we kiss, he’s all tongue. You wouldn’t think he would with his innocent demeanor. My eyes roll to the back of my head as his tongue caresses the tip of mine. I’m unable to hold back a groan. The pit of my stomach burns. Not. Good. We aren’t in a private enough location for Butters to oh-so obediently lap at my dick or wrap his lovely fingers around me. Not that he has. Only in my dreams. Soon enough, Butters scoots completely off the chair and into me. We fall with a thud and his yelp. My hand hits the glass railing.

“What the hell are you guys doing up there?” Kyle shouts up at us.

“Shut up, Kyle!” I shout back.

I stare at Butters on top of me, sitting on my growing boner. His cheeks are red at he looks into my eyes. Blushing, I push him off me and march downstairs, thinking of things that gross me out to get rid of my boner. Like kittens being thrown into a meat grinder. It’s gone quick enough. Butters clips my heels as he follows me, probably rubbing his knuckles together. I throw open the door leading to the backyard, over to the pool, cannonballing in. Immediately, the heat of the sun and my blush cool. When I surface, Butters is just dipping his toes in. I’m not mad at _him_ , but it was a close call. Eyes above the waterline, I reach forward and grab Butters’ feet and pull him in. He disappears under before he jumps from the water, gasping, water dripping down the bridge of his porcelain nose.

“Eric!” he scolds. I laugh at his face. He’s cute when he’s angry.

Then I realize it’s completely still and silent. Aside from the hum of cars. Everyone’s looking at us with smirks and high brows. I distance myself from Butters. “What?” I snap, narrowing my eyes.

“Nothing,” Kenny says.

“Good,” I retort.


	5. Tweek Tweak

**That's gay, Craig.**

Cartman and Butters’ friendship has always been a confusing one. One day, Cartman could hate Butters, the next he was using him for emotional support. Butters could despise Cartman as much as us, then stick by him and believe every pretty lie he tells him. It makes my head hurt. And now, seeing Cartman _get along_ with another human being—and that human being being _Butters_ —my world has been flipped upside down. I lean on Craig in the water, mouthing _What the fuck?_ to him. He shrugs. I meet everyone’s eye. They all give me the same look Craig gave me—confusion and cluelessness. Our heads turn to Clyde. Same look from him. He flicks water at Jimmy, who retaliates. Commotion is picked up.

I whisper to Craig, “Is it just me, or did it seem like Cartman was _flirting_ with Butters? Or am I just going crazy?”

He intertwines his fingers with mine underwater. “You’re not going crazy. I agree with you. I’ve always suspected he was gay, or liked guys, at least. I never expected Butters though. I expected Kyle. He’s always had a weird obsession with him. But Butters? Nope. Never.”

I chuckle. “Maybe we’re just seeing things. Wouldn’t be the first time. But somethings _can_ turn out to be unexpected. That’s kinda how the world works, man. And we would know. With being forced to be together and all,” I say.

“But I liked you _way_ before that. I just wouldn’t admit it. Also, me being only ten and not knowing that liking a boy just a bit more than your other guy friends meant I was gay also contributed.”

“That’s true. If no one pointed it out, I never would’ve guessed. Ten-year-olds aren’t usually exposed to that shit, you know? It’s supposed to be an innocent age. You’re supposed to be preoccupied with video games and friends and homework. Not being forced into a homosexual relationship with the boy you’d realize you were _actually_ gay for. In the normal world, we wouldn’t have realized that until now.” I pause. “What do you think would’ve happened if we were never pushed together?”

Craig’s face pales. He looks kinda queasy. “Let’s… not think about that. Let’s just say it would’ve been filled with long, painful years of pining before one of us finally worked up enough courage to as the other out,” he blanches.

“I would probably be the one asking you out, since you’d be in denial about being gay,” I add.

Color returns to Craig’s cheeks in shades of pink. He splashes water at me. “Not true!” he argues.

“That’s how it happened in fourth grade!” I say. Craig makes another attempt to splash me, but I swim away.

“Oh, real classy! You were just talking about how we shouldn’t have been worry about that shit then! But even still, I came around!” He lunges for me. I shoot backwards.

Cackling, I spout, “More like came out!”

Craig jumps on my back, bringing us both underwater. I silence my giggles so I don’t gulp pool water. I hate the taste of chlorine. Who likes it? He brings us both up, hoisting me by my armpits. He smashes a watery kiss to my mouth. Not pulling away, he purrs, “You’re the worst.”

My hands are on his shoulders. I hum. “I know. But so are you.”

Right then, we’re enveloped in a wave of water. I glance up at the diving board, watching it wobble. Cartman surfaces. No wonder. Stan climbs up next. He bounces for a moment, saying, “Look out, below!” Then he backflips into the water. Cartman has just enough time to move before Stan narrowly jumps onto him. That would be bad. Then he’d have to go to the hospital, and oh God.

Craig drags me away from the madness, to where Clyde, Kenny, Kyle, and Jimmy are having a water gun battle. Where did they get those? My question is answered when I see Mom set down ten water bottles on the marble picnic table. Her hair’s up in a short ponytail, eyes concealed by sunglasses. To Mom, I call, “Mom, can you get me the pizza floatie please?”

She nods, going back inside. When she passes by me, she reminds me, “It’s still gonna have to be blown up, so it’ll be a while.”

“Okay.” Craig’s fingers entangle themselves in my hair. “Stop that,” I say without much power. He rests his head on top of mine, hand traveling down my neck. He pets me like I’m some kind of dog. Or maybe guinea pig, since he’s into that. Stripe #4 is the longest living guinea pig he’s had, and that’s no coincidence.

Mom returns with the floatie, throwing it over my head. I thank her, hoisting myself onto it. I pull Craig up. He curls up next to me, peppering my face with unnecessary kisses. I swear, he’s so clingy. I blush under his flitting lips because I know my friends are watching. Cartman  _Ooh_ s mockingly, then winces in what I guess is Kyle smacking him upside the head. Or maybe it’s Clyde since a “Stupid Jew rat!” doesn’t follow. I nudge Craig away, embarrassed and flustered at the same damn time. He chuckles, like he’s purposely trying to get me to react like this. I don’t doubt it. He leans in again.

“You’re smothering me, man!” I whine.

Against my jaw he counters, “Smothering you in my love, yeah.”

I use the strength I acquired in my boxing lessons and shove him off the floatie, sending him spiraling into the water. I lean over the edge, enough to not tip over after him, but to see the water and Craig’s figure beginning to surface. I guffaw, stomach hurting because I’m laughing so hard. I’m gonna throw up. In the background, I can hear the rest laughing and mumbling their approval, when Craig springs from the water like the Little Mermaid, wrapping his arms around my neck, slamming his lips to mine. None of this helps my blush. He proceeds to pull me off my pizza ship and into the churning sea below. Poison from his lips flow into my system, casting me under his spell. What a fucking siren. My chest is burning, from the lack of air or the avalanche of public affection, I can’t tell.

We part long enough to gasp for air. Craig slicks his hair back, grinning as if he won a Grammy or some stupid shit like that. I’m fuming to compensate for my embarrassment. Water drips off my hair and into my eyes. He cocks his head at me, still grinning, “Aww, c’mon, starlight. Lighten up.” Sometimes I wish he could revert back to the apathetic asshole we all knew, but now he’s out of his shell and he won’t go back. And it’s all my fault.

“Starlight?” I throw my hands up in the air only to let them fall back underwater. “First ‘honey’, then ‘babe’, and now ‘starlight’? Fuck, Craig, how much gayer can you get, you space nerd—”

Craig can’t keep his hands off me. I established that back in fourth grade. It gives me butterflies and makes me lightheaded. In a single smooth motion, he swoops me back so I’m balanced on one foot. His head is tilted, kissing me ferociously. My neck rests in the crook of his arm, the other hand on my waist, and we’re kissing like V-J Day in Times Square. Sighing through my nose, I allow my eyes to flutter shut and give in to him because he’s persistent.

We break away slowly, and through my blush, I grumble, “Horny much, spaceman?” He laughs and slings an arm around my shoulders like we didn’t just kiss multiple times in front of our friends. Not that they care. Craig’s done this so many times that it’s annoyingly adorable. But they’re not really immune to it either. Cartman and Clyde are the most obsessed. For real, right now, they’re beaming at us like proud dads or something. Craig and I flip them off simultaneously. Craig takes note of this and gawks at me. His face tells me Cupid’s arrow just pierced his heart for the billionth time since we’ve dated. I swear his eyes turn into hearts. His jaw hangs open, and he’s actually drooling. “Tweek,” he all but breathes, “I fucking love you.”

I drop my hand and frown at him. “N-no, Craig,” I say, brows furrowed.

Music clicks on the speakers on the walls of the house. My friends start moving again, hopefully over it. Mom comes over and motions for me to come closer to the edge of the pool. So I do. She slides my black Wayfarer sunglasses onto my nose. She blows a bubble of pink gum as big as a baseball.

“Is that mine? The one I just bought?” I ask.

She pops the bubble. “Yep.” Then she gets up without another word and walks back to the picnic table.

“Your mom’s cool,” Clyde remarks. There’s a tone of sadness in his voice, but he does his best to cover it up. I notice it though. I notice a lot of things. Like how Cartman’s insecure about his weight and not having a biological dad but doesn’t want to admit it. Like how Stan’s not as happy as he seems. And like how Clyde misses his mom, even if he tries not to show it.

“Thanks, I guess?” I look over at Mom. Louder, I say, “But she can be kinda boring sometimes.”

She playfully sticks her tongue out at me. “I can ground you even if we are on vacation,” she says.

Butters shudders. “I hate being grounded.” He looks down at the water, a frown on his usually smiling face. It makes my stomach churn in an uneasy way. I put a hand on his shoulder. He looks at me with sad eyes. I muster a smile for him. I’m not very good at comforting people. Usually people are comforting me. Butters returns my smile, and I understand _why_ people try to comfort me even if they know it’ll do nothing. Because it feels good to see someone smile.

“I get it, man,” I say.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“Tweek!” I look at Craig. He beckons me over to where him and Jimmy are talking. I swim over, grabbing my floatie along the way. I glance at Butters. He’s wading over to where Cartman is. I really wish he hung out with people who care more about him.

 

For three hours, it’s all directionless banter and roughhousing even with the sun long below the buildings. It’s nine o’clock at night now, and the moon is up high. Craig expresses his disappointment on how there’s not a single star in the sky. I snicker at him, lightly punching his arm. “God, you’re such a dork,” I smile. I plant kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I know.”

Mom calls, “Dinner’s ready. Hurry up and eat, and maybe you’ll have time to watch a movie after you shower.” She sets a plate onto the picnic table. We all scramble out of the the water and grab towels from the empty chair by the pool, squashing against each other to fit all ten of us onto the benches.

The plate holds barbecued meat. I didn’t even know Dad _was_ barbequing. Mom also sets out a bowl of fruit and places the red Solo cups in front of each of us. “We have Sprite, Coke, and Fanta,” she says. “Pick your poison.”

I choose Sprite, Craig Coke, and Cartman pours all three into his cup. Kyle expresses his disgust in how unhealthy that probably is. Clyde observes when Cartman takes a sip, and when Cartman nods proudly at his concoction, Clyde asks, “Is it good?”

Cartman downs the thing while piling his plate high with chicken. “Yes,” he replies.

And Clyde pours all three into his cup.

Kyle gawks. “Maybe you two are more related than I thought,” he says in disbelief.

Back in seventh grade, Clyde would’ve thrown a fit about the comment, but now he shrugs. “Maybe.” He raises the cup to his lips.

Cartman laughs, pointing a finger in Kyle’s face. He high-fives Clyde. He really takes pleasure in proving Kyle wrong. Kyle, in turn, pulls a chunk of meat off his kabob stick. He reels his arm back, but Stan puts a hand on his elbow before things can get too hectic. Craig, Token, Jimmy, and I trade looks that say, _Here we go again._

Everyone wolfs down their meals and sodas. Stan bought a salad when we were at Target, since he’s a vegetarian. The only one of us. We haven’t eaten since the snacks we bought at Target, and we’ve been swimming in a pool for three hours. We’re starving. I wolf down four kabob sticks and ten strawberries, not even considering I could choke and die. After I lean my head on the table, my stomach feels like it’ll burst. Once everyone’s finished eating, we go inside the house, collapsing on mattresses and couches. As soon as we’re down, Mom tuts and pulls and motions for us to get off the mattresses.

“Don’t sit on those! You have chlorine and sunblock all over you and you’ll get it on your blankets! One of you shower down here, the other upstairs. I want all of you to get your pajamas and your toiletries before you clean yourselves so you can change in the bathroom. Who’s first?” she demands. She has her hands on her hips in that motherly way.

To humor her, I say, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Mom looks at me and shakes her head laughing. “Get upstairs,” she says between giggles.

I march upstairs, gathering my PJ’s and toothbrush. I draw the bath, sitting on the toilet lid waiting for the water to reach a respectable height. I debate on dropping a bath bomb in, but I decide against it. Mom got the good kind—the one she usually uses with lighted candles when she isn’t feeling good. Like me, the bathroom is her peace place, which is a weird place to calm down.

When I’m satisfied with the height of the water, I take off my damp shorts and lower myself into the warm water. After I’ve cleaned myself, I unplug the drain and towel off. I change, hang up my towel, throw my shorts in the hamper, and head downstairs.

I plunk onto my mattress. Stan goes upstairs next. From my observation, it seems like Craig’s in the bathroom down here. When he’s finally out and dressed, he lays beside me. His dripping hair is plastered to his forehead. I push it back affectionately, kissing his cheek. He’s wearing one of his five NASA T-shirts that he alternates between wearing to bed and in public. I stick my finger in his chest where the logo is printed. He cradles my hand. “There’s a NASA research center about an hour away from here,” I tell him.

He freezes, staring at me wide-eyed. “What?” he says slowly.

“Yeah. Cool, isn’t it? It’s in Pasadena. I tried to get my parents to get a reservation, but there wasn’t one available for this week. We were too late. Sorry, Craig. I know how much you wanna go to NASA,” I apologize.

I expect him to frown in disappointment, but instead he squeezes me around the middle, mumbling, “It doesn’t matter if we can go or not. I’m just so happy that you even _tried_ to get a reservation for _me._ Tweek, I love you to Neptune and back.”

I giggle at his spacey way of telling me he loves me. I remember one time he told me he loved me that way back in sixth grade when I gave him a new chullo, and I said I thought the expression was “to the moon and back," not “to Neptune and back," and he said Neptune is farther away from Earth than the moon, and his love for me is much more than just 477,710 miles. He loves me 5.4 billion miles.

“You’re such an outstanding geek, and I love you too,” I say.

Jimmy inputs, “Don’t you mean _stellar_ geek?”

I facepalm, but I’m laughing. Craig’s chuckling quietly too with a hand over his mouth. When our giggles die down, he observes, “You’re wearing that shirt I got you.”

Craig makes me wear shirts relating to space and Red Racer because he thinks I look cute in them. Half of the shirts I own are the ones he bought me and the ones I bought myself because I know he’d like to see me in them. The shirt I’m wearing now is green with a blown-up image of an alien with a galaxy in its eyes. “Green’s my favorite color, you know.” I look up at him to see him looking at me with a tilt of his head and a quirk of his eyebrow. That’s the _Really?_ look.

Sarcastically he says, “ _Really?_ I had _no_ idea.”

I bite back a grin. “Wanna know why?”

He shrugs. “Why?”

I lean my back against his chest, gazing up at him. He looks down at me and I get a full view of his sparkling green eyes. My stomach does cartwheels. I lift my arms behind my head, resting them on his shoulders. I fiddle with the tag sticking out of the neck of his shirt. “Because I’ve always liked it, man. There was never a reason to it. Until I looked into your eyes. Then I knew the reason why I liked green. Why I love it, actually.”

Craig blushes. I wrap my arms around him, kissing the underside of his jaw. He mutters words I can’t decipher under his breath, not meeting my eye. To save him, his phone starts ringing, so he slips out from under me and gets up. He drops a kiss to my face before leaving to search for his phone. Cartman approaches the shelf next to the TV. I watch him as he looks through the stuff just in case he tries to steal something. He gets to the highest shelf and turns to me. “Are these your mom’s or yours?” Cartman picks up one of the Taylor Swift albums on the bookshelf. He holds up _1989._

I blush deep red. I’m hesitant to answer, trying to predict if he’ll rip on me if I do. Deciding I can just deal with his petty insults, I admit, “Oh... Uh, they’re mine.” It’s not my fault Bebe got me hooked.

His reaction shocks me to my core: “Cool. My favorite album’s _reputation._  ‘I Did Something Bad’ is my favorite.” He goes on to quote, singing, “ _If a man talks shit then I owe  him nothing, I don’t regret it one bit ‘cause he had it coming._ ”

His favorite song being “I Did Something Bad” actually makes perfect sense. Now that I think about it, “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” works well for Kyle too...

I have to blink a few times, allow myself to gape and twitch before I can blurt “ _Really_?” a little too loudly. I keep going because I can’t stop. “Yeah, it’s definitely different. But a good different. Mine’s _Speak Now,_ mainly ‘cause she wrote it all on her own. I find that inspiring,” I ramble.

I bite my tongue. Great. Now he’ll really tear me down. “Yeah. You write songs, right?” he asks. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sweet. _Red_ is pretty good too,” he says.

My fingers fiddle with my shirt. I stare up at him with wide eyes. I never knew Cartman was such a music savant. I mean, I know he loves Lady Gaga, and that’s got to count for something, but other pop artists or other artists in general? That never crossed my mind.

“Shocking, I know,” he says. “I like pop music.”

I nod a little too vigorously. “No, yeah, I get it, man,” I say. “Bebe made me listen to one of Taylor Swift’s songs in fifth grade and I couldn’t stop listening.” I internally wince.

“Have you seen that video of her accepting her NME award? I think Craig would like it.”

I blink a thousand times. “I… I dunno, man.” I stare at him, dumbfounded. He’s still fat, still has brown hair, one violet eye, the other brown. It’s Eric Cartman, all right. Not some alien. But then again, it could be a clone. That _has_ happened before, after all.

“I’ll pull it up,” he offers.

Hesitantly, I turn and call Craig over. To his phone, he says, “Okay. Bye, Mom,” and plops down next to me. The mattress shoots up a bit. “Yeah?”

Cartman hands us his phone. Craig and I watch the forty-seven second video in silence. When the award is presented at the sixteen second mark, Craig balls his hand into a fist. “I need that fucking award,” he says passionately.

I snort. “You need a fucking award?” I tease.

He gives me the _Really?_ look. I hand Cartman back his phone. Is it bizarre that I had a normal conversation with Eric Cartman about something that’s minorly embarrassing to admit it aloud? Yes. Am I shocked that he didn’t make fun of me? Yes.

Man, this trip is off to a weird start.


	6. Kyle Broflovski

**Go to sleep. Please.**

It’s past midnight. Back in Colorado, it’s already 2 a.m. We’re all still wide awake. Whether it’s excitement or nerves, no one knows. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the body next to me. Stan’s whispering to Kenny. I keep my mouth shut. If I don’t, I’ll probably say something I’ll regret. _Spongebob Squarepants_ plays on Netflix on the flat screen TV. You’d think we’d grow out of the show, but none of us have. It’s kind of like Terrance and Phillip. Why _are_ they so old all of the sudden?

The kitchen lights are still on, even though Tweek’s parents are probably already in bed. Speaking of Tweek’s parents, from the foot of the stairs his mom calls, “Tweek, come here please.”

Having nothing better to do, I watch Tweek stand from his mattress and walk over to his mom. She has those weird mud masks on her face. As soon as Tweek’s in front of her, he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. “Why do I always fall for this?” he groans.

Mrs. Tweak reveals a small pot that she was hiding behind her back. She dips her fingers into it and smears the stuff across Tweek’s cheeks. He jerks away. “Stop it, Mom!” he says. She smiles kindly and steps closer so she can continue. They end up chasing each other around the kitchen island.

“Oh, come on, Tweek! It’s not that bad. Do you really want acne? You’re always complaining about how you hate it!” Mrs. Tweak sets the pot down on the counter and grabs her son’s arm. He fights for a moment before giving in. She sits him on a stool previously tucked into the island and coats his face in the mask. He glares at her as she does.

He mumbles so only she can hear, but Tweek’s never been good at being quiet. “Do you really have to do this with my friends over?”

Mrs. Tweak strightens. “I can put this on them too.”

Tweek meets my eye and a grin splits across his face. I startle, positive he didn’t know I was watching. Guess I was wrong. I duck my head under the blanket, ripping it from Stan’s arms. “Hey!” he protests. I ignore him. I tuck the edges of the blanket under me so I’m cocooned underneath.

All I know is that Mrs. Tweak is fast. With Tweek on her side, they’re unstoppable. Tweek rips the blanket off me like a magician revealing flock of doves in a previously empty cage. He even has the gleam in his eye down. They corners us like farm chicken and Mrs. Tweak wipes the mud mask all over our faces. We all groan at the slimy feeling and Tweek knocks our hands away when we try to wipe it off. As time passes, the masks starts to harden. My face feels weird and tight against my skull.

“Mom wanted a girl,” Tweek says. He crosses his arms and gives his mom the side eye. He looks funny with his mask, but I guess we all do.

“Not true, pumpkin,” Mrs. Tweak sings. She dabs the last glob of mask on Butters, who was the only one willing to do it. “Ten minutes, and you can wash your faces.”

“Can I wash my face _now?_ ” Stan asks. I kick his shin. He winces.

After ten long minutes, we fight to get into the bathroom first. Token’s smart and avoids it all by running upstairs. Why didn’t I think of that? I skid to a stop and follow him up. We splash our faces with water, sighing contentedly. Not gonna lie, taking the mask off feels good. Then we go back downstairs.

Things die down quickly. Three minutes quickly. We’re all laying on our mattresses again, staring mindlessly at the TV screen. Mrs. Tweak shuts off the light in the kitchen. “Goodnight, boys. Do me a favor and don’t stay up too late. We have Disneyland tomorrow.” With a kiss on Tweek and Craig’s heads and a princess-like wave to the rest of us, she disappears upstairs. It’s calm for a heartbeat. I actually convince myself that we’ll follow directions and go to sleep. But of course not.

Clyde slams his pillow into Token’s face. Token picks up his pillow and retaliates by hitting Clyde until he has to cover his head with his own. Clyde shrieks.

Kenny stands, pounding his chest like a gorilla. “Pillow fight!” he yells.

A pillow hits me square in the face. I grab mine and look to see where the assault came from. Surprisingly, it’s not Cartman. It’s Stan, who’s grinning at me and backing out of the range of my pillow. I risk a glance to see Cartman teamed up with Butters, pummeling Kenny and Jimmy. Stan hits me with his pillow again. Now I grin.

“It’s on,” I say. I lift my pillow above my head, shouting a warcry. I run at him, whacking him with my pillow left and right. We can’t stop laughing. I stifle my giggles to keep the milk from spewing out my nose. It hurts and it’s gross. Stan tries to get hits at me, but I’m too good at  blocking. On one hit to the side of his head, he stops laughing and winces, cradling his left ear. I keep my aim ready, in case he’s faking. But when he drops his pillow, I lower mine. My brows furrow.

“Stan?”

He looks up at me. “It’s nothing. Just my piercing.” He got his ears pierced last week and they’re still sore.

“Oh. Sorry, dude.”

“It’s fine.” Stan’s eyes flick behind me. “Ky, watch out—!”

Too late. A pillow catches me in the back of the head, making me stumble forward into Stan. We fall in a heap on the floor, me on top. I prop myself up, unable to contain my blush. I’m thankful for the darkness. I scramble off him, glaring at Craig grinning down at us. “Oops,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. Then he jumps onto Tweek.

Once everyone’s panting on the floor beside their mattresses (no one had the strength to lift themselves onto it), Tweek says, “Since my parents are upstairs, do you guys wanna watch a movie?” He exits the _Spongebob_ episode we didn’t watch and scrolls through Netflix, looking for something. We settle into our mattresses.

“Can we watch telenovelas?” Cartman asks hopefully. The light from the screen reflects off his glasses. Everyone throws questioning looks his way. Why the _fuck_ would _Cartman_ want to watch Spanish soap operas? I’m about to ask when someone else beats me to it.

“No, Eric!” Clyde argues. He climbs onto his mattress.

“Can we watch a horror movie?” Stan suggests. I throw a glare at him. He _knows_ how I feel about horror movies. He just grins at me. His black hair is sticking straight up—like Tweek’s hair before he cut it. Stan’s the one in need of a haircut though. His bangs hang over his eyes when it’s not tousled like it is now, and he’s constantly pushing it out of his face. When he does, his hair stays slicked back. That’s how long it is. I’m tempted to ask Tweek where the scissors are and cut off his bangs without his consent. I like seeing his ocean blue eyes.

Tweek’s one of those people who you expect to be afraid of horror movies, but turn out to be really not. Butters is the one startled by jumpscares and gorey shit. I don’t blame him.

Tweek bites his lip. “Sure. Which one?”

No one says anything. It’s not that any of us are afraid, it’s just that we’ve seen them all. Good and bad. Scary or not. In the silence, we hear Kenny murmuring from the bathroom. Cartman shouts, “Kenny! Get out here!”

“Hang on!” he shouts back.

When Kenny returns, Tweek glances at each of us. “No one? I have a suggestion.” His voice drops low, sending chills down my spine as he speaks, “Have you ever heard of the story of Lolita?”

“I’ve never heard of a horror movie called ‘Lolita’,” Token says.

Tweek shrugs. “It’s not really a horror movie. It’s not categorized as one, but it might as well be. I’ve never watched the movie myself, but I’ve heard and seen clips about it. Disturbing is the word I would use to describe it,” he explains. He shudders, as if the little bits of the movie he’s seen makes him queasy. That really doesn’t help my unease.

“Then let’s watch it!” Kenny says. I hate him for that. I’m not the biggest fan of horror movies, but if I express that aloud, they’ll totally rip on me. Cartman especially.

Next to Kenny, Butters whimpers. “I—I dunno, fellas. This don’t seem like a good idea.”

From the couch, Cartman huffs. “Seriously, Butters? It’s just a movie,” he grumbles. I guess being turned down his telenovelas put him in a bad mood. But not a bad enough mood to snap at Butters properly. He hasn’t done that in a while.

I want to argue with him that Butters is just expressing what makes him uncomfortable, but then he’ll start accusing me of being afraid, so I keep my mouth shut.

An evil grin splits across Tweek’s features. He looks haunting in the dark, the blue light of the TV illuminating the left side of his face. “If you’re all sure…” He trails off, raising an eyebrow.

Seven out of the ten of us chorus an agreement. The three left out is me and Butters, and Tweek since he asked the question. Tweek nods. He shuts off Netflix and rises on his knees on his mattress. He presses buttons on the remote, bringing up YouTube.

“What? Netflix doesn’t have the movie we’re watching? Is it that horri-horr-horrif—scary?” Jimmy questions.

“Yep. It’s so vile and disgusting that not even Netflix has it,” Tweek answers. It doesn’t help my anxiety. Then again, I’m not the one with severe anxiety to the point of going to therapy. Poor kid. “But like I said, that’s just my guess because I haven’t seen this movie before.” Still doesn’t help my anxiety.

The screen lights up and Tweek returns to Craig’s open arms. They snuggle into each other before Tweek turns back to the screen as the movie fades into a green field.

When we’re first introduced to Lolita, she’s reading in the grass soaked under the active sprinkler. The way Humbert Humbert—a middle-aged man with _intentions—_ looks at her and calls her beautiful makes us all gag and shudder. For me in particular, I’m brought back to Ike’s affair with his kindergarten teacher. I curl into a ball, cringing. I keep the memory from intruding my brain.

“How old is she supposed to be?” My voice is warbly as I ask the question.

Tweek squeaks, “Our age. Like fourteen, fifteen maybe. In the book she’s twelve I think.”

Another round of gags uprises. “Can we turn this off please?” Butters begs, holding the blanket up to his chin. He looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“Close your eyes. Try to sleep,” Kenny advises. He moves his hand up and down Butters’ back.

“She kind of looks like Ruby,” Craig muses.

“Dude!” I shout. “Don’t say that! You don’t want your sister to have anything in common with Lolita, even if she _is_ fictional!”

Craig shrugs. “True.”

It’s downhill from there. Humbert watches the poor girl like a fucking hawk. Every time there’s inappropriate contact, we groan and gag. It’s worse because I keep imaging Tricia as Lolita and I feel queasy.

When the old man watches her use the bathroom through the ajar door, we make noises, quiet enough to not wake Tweek’s parents, but loud enough to express our disgust. “Fucked up!” I exclaim. I pull the blanket over my head. I feel green. Like I’m gonna throw up. I want this movie to end.

Lolita jumping on Humbert and kissing him before leaving for camp really does it for me. I turn away from the screen, burying my face into my pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You okay?” Stan whispers.

“No,” I hiss back. “This movie’s disgusting. It reminds me of…” I don’t bother finishing. He knows what I’m talking about. “And now that Craig’s said Lolita looks like his sister, I can’t stop seeing it…”

Stan pats my back. “Just try to sleep, dude. Butters is drifting off already.” I glance at Butters’ and Kenny’s mattress at the foot of ours. Butters is snuggled into the pillow, eyes closed. He looks peaceful. I envy Butters for his childlike way off dropping into sleep.

The murmuring from the TV and the noises from my friends keep me up an hour longer than I would’ve liked. I hear everything. Some of the lines are questionable without context, so I turn to take a glimpse. I end up watching another ten minutes each time, and I get more disgusted each time. _That’s it,_ I tell myself. _I’m not turning around again._ I flip over, tugging the blanket up to my ears. Stan’s in front of me, his right arm propping his head up. The colors from the screen are cast on his face. He looks enchanting. I blush, and I find myself thankful for the darkness once more. _Don’t think like that,_ I scold myself. He glances down at me with his blue eyes and smiles softly. I shut my own eyes, trying to block out my brain and my senses. But the feeling of Stan’s body next to me won’t go away. It sticks in my mind, taunting me.

I dig my nails into my palm. Whatever I’m feeling needs to go away. We’re super best friends. We have stupid matching bracelets Stan bought us over holiday break. Mine’s blue, his is green. I run my fingers over the yarn on my left hand. My blush deepens. If nobody else was around, I would hit myself. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. Stan shifts. I peek through my eyelids and get a clear view of his shirt with “doggo” in bold print. That’s literally it. A red T-shirt with “doggo” in bold black. I’m convinced Stan’s a closeted furry. That’s my last thought before I fall asleep. Naturally, I have a dream that Stan’s a werewolf.


	7. Clyde Donovan

**YEET**

I’m the first person awake. Well, I’m the first person awake aside from Tweek, but he’s always first awake so it doesn’t count. I look around, still groggy with sleep. Where am I again? I survey my surroundings. All my friends around me sleeping on mattresses, giant floor-to-ceiling windows with sunlight peeking through, huge flat screen TV that probably costs more than my house… Oh yeah. Venice Beach, Los Angeles. The Tweaks’ vacation home. Tweek’s so lucky. I wish I had a vacation home in somewhere like New York maybe. I'd live in the apartment across from my sister. That’d be cool. I sit up slowly enough to not disturb Token. Or maybe I want to. But maybe he’ll kick my ass when he wakes up. Nah, I’ll leave him alone. Across the glass table is Tweek’s mattress. He’s on his phone with earbuds in. Craig’s arm is wrapped around his waist, his chullo covering his face. They’re the power couple of the town for a reason.

A particularly loud snore comes from the couch. I look over and see Eric sleeping with his mouth wide open. Maybe that’s the reason I woke up. I reach for my bag of cold popcorn that was warm when I was snacking on it last night during that movie. And, damn, was Tweek right when he said it was disturbing. I almost cried. I stick my hand into the bag and grab a puff. I aim my arm, launching it right into Eric’s mouth. He shifts, but his mouth still gapes. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. I miss six and make three more puffs in before I hear Tweek whisper, “What’re you doing?”

I turn my head to the direction of his mattress. He’s sitting up, his earbuds pulled out of his ears. I answer quietly, “Throwing popcorn in Eric’s mouth. I do it all the time when he falls asleep on the couch.”

Tweek stands and makes his way over to me. He sits cross legged on the floor, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t you worry he’ll choke?”

I shake my head. “Nah. He loves it.” I push the bag between us. “Wanna try?”

Tweek grabs a handful of puffs and tosses one at Eric. It hits his chin, falling to his shirt. We keep going, covering our mouths with our hands to not let our giggles slip and wake the others. Maybe five minutes and a pile of popcorn next to Eric’s head later, Kyle groans, shifting around to us. Tweek and I freeze, watching him squint at us. “What are you doing?” he asks.

I hold out my handful of popcorn. “Playing Cartmanball. You take small foods and try to make it into his mouth while he sleeps.”

Kyle scrambles out of the blankets and crawls over to us. His once sleepy eyes are wide are awake now. “Gimme some,” he whispers. “You know he’ll just enjoy this when he wakes up, right?”

“Hell yeah. I was telling Tweek how I do it all the time at home. I get entertainment, he gets food. It’s a win-win,” I say.

Kyle rolls his eyes, throwing a popcorn puff as flawlessly as he throws a basketball into Eric’s mouth. “Cartman shouldn’t be winning anything,” he grumbles. Yet he continues to toss puffs into his enemy’s mouth.

“You’re gonna be on the basketball team in high school, right?” I ask. “Because you’re really good.”

Kyle nods. “Yeah. It’s one of the things I’m looking forward to.”

“I’m not looking forward to anything. High school’s gonna be so different, man. So many changes. I’m terrified. And stressed.” Tweek shudders. “Mostly stressed,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Don’t worry, dude. We’ll be there for you. And you’ve always got Craig,” I assure.

Tweek looks at me. “Thanks, I guess.”

It feels like hours before everybody wakes up. Maybe it was hours. I don’t know. My phone’s still off. Eric’s the last to wake up, and that’s only because he smells the pancakes Mrs. Tweak is cooking in the kitchen. His nose twitches and he bolts up, wide awake. He makes a face, but it smooths out when he starts chewing. I pull the neck of my shirt over my nose to hide my grin. We all watch him get to his feet with speed we didn’t know he had as he marches into the kitchen.

“Pancakes?” he asks Mrs. Tweak.

She looks up. Her eyes that are also Tweek’s glitter. Mrs. Tweak is hot. Not because she looks like Tweek, but she’s just pretty. “Yep. Almost done.”

Eric pulls out a stool and sits down. Everyone in the room exchanges glances. I look from Craig to Tweek under his arm to Jimmy to Token next to me. I share a look with Kyle, meeting Stan’s, Kenny’s, and Butters’ eyes. We sigh collectively.

Mrs. Tweak calls for the rest of us. I grab a stack of golden pancakes piled high on the plate. My mouth starts to water. Mrs. Tweak and Tweek bake all the pastries at Tweek Bros, and they’re the best pastries ever. Also, that sentence had too much  _ Tweek  _ in it, spelling alterations or not. I walk back to the couches, since the breakfast bar only seats four. The others follow.

“Try not to get anything on the blankets or mattresses. Because you still have to sleep on it for four more days,” Mr. Tweak remind us. We make noises that tell him,  _ We won’t. _

I’m gonna skip through eating, because all you need to know is that the pancakes were good and I had ten. Mrs. Tweak orders us to brush our teeth and change out of our pajamas so we can go to Disneyland. The very mention of the amusement park makes a smile split across my face. It really is the happiest place on Earth. “It’s already nine o’clock,” she says. “We’re gonna be there all day, so we still need to pack water and whatnot. Wear sneakers. We’re going to be walking around all day.”

“When you say ‘all day,' do you mean from when we get there and until the sun sets, or until closing time?” Token asks.

Mrs. Tweak collects our empty dishes. “Until twelve in the morning, when it closes.” She looks at each of us pointedly. “So I hope you got decent sleep. If not, Tweek will have to acquaint you with the coffee machine.” She winks and walks into the kitchen.

“Speaking of coffee,” Tweek says, “can I have some?”

“Did you drink a cup of water?” she responds.

Tweek pouts, crossing his arms. “That ‘one cup of water before coffee’ rule is stupid,” he snaps.

“Tweek, your coach recommended that so you can stay hydrated, remember? It’s also not healthy to drink so much coffee and so little water. You have to balance it out.” Mrs. Tweak hands her son a glass of water.

He raises it to his lips, grumbling, “That’s ironic coming from you.”

Mrs. Tweak rolls her eyes. She puts a hand on the rail on the staircase. “Richard, can you load the dishwasher, please?” She vanishes upstairs.

My phone rings, blasting “Tik Tok” loud enough for everyone in the house to hear. The guys snicker at me. Craig makes a remark about how stupid my ringtone is. I blush, answering so it’ll stop. “Hello?” I grind out. I didn’t even get a chance to see who was calling me.

There’s girlish giggling on the other side, confusing me. Sadly, and I’d never admit this out loud, but I don’t have any phone numbers that belong to girls aside from my sister, who’s away at university. “ _ Hi _ , Clyde,” a familiar voice sings.

My blush deepens. My friends look at me with raised eyebrows. “Hi… Bebe,” I say. I cringe immediately afterward.

My friends wolf whistle and howl. Eric smirks deviously. All of them know about my crush on Bebe Stevens. I caught her eye in English in seventh grade, and I swear, Cupid hit me. From that day forward, I couldn’t get over myself, even though our previous relationship failed. I wasn’t too hurt then, not too into her. But now I am. And I’m screwed.

“How’ve you been?” she says. “I heard you’re in LA. I’ve always wanted to go to LA.”

There’s talking in the background that sounds a lot like Wendy.

Bebe confirms my suspicions. “Wendy says to tell Tweek he’s gonna get it when he comes back for not taking us with him.”

I glance at Tweek. Unable to help myself, I glance at Stan too, but immediately flick back to Tweek. “Wendy says you’re gonna get it when you get back,” I repeat.

Stan shifts uncomfortably. Him and Wendy haven’t dated since fifth grade.

Tweek rolls his eyes, groaning. “She was texting me this morning. I told her I’d take her and the girls  _ one day _ .”

From the distance on the other side of the phone, Wendy laughs and shouts, “One day! What does that mean?”

Bebe giggles with her best friend. Bebe has the nicest giggle. Like a Disney princess. Speaking of princesses, Bebe says, “You’ll take pictures for me, right, Clyde? Especially of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Please?”

I stammer silently. “Yeah. Sure,” I eventually push out. I don’t know how she’ll take this, but I risk it. “Hey… How’d you get my number?” I ask.

“Oh. Cartman gave it to me,” she replies happily.

I glare at my brother. He grins at me. I pull a pillow from behind my back and hurl it at his face. He catches it cackling. He has a knack for getting involved in other people’s relationships. Some examples are Token and Nichole and Craig and Tweek. Both of which are successful and have been since fourth grade. I can’t really blame him though. I love Token and Craig’s relationships. Admire them, even.

I still don’t understand how him and Butters are dating. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t wanna know. But ever since, he’s been slightly nicer and that’s good enough for me.

“Oh…” I say after the long pause. “Um, well, we have to go soon, so talk later?”

“Yeah! Bye, Clyde!” The line goes dead.

I love how Bebe says my name. I stare at the screen of my phone for a minute before my friends start to tease me. I don’t bother responding to any of it. They’re all full of shit.

 

Dressed and ready to go, we all bounce on our heels, way too excited for Disneyland. The drive’s about an hour away, which feels like too long. It’s almost eleven in the morning, and we’re just getting in the car. I sit next to Craig, who’s next to Tweek. It’s a given. Eric and Butters sit in front of us. Nobody else has any clue that they’re together. Even for me, it’s a little surprising. Kenny sits at the window with them, and I’m well aware of how Eric bristles at how he’s next to Butters. I think he’s jealous, for whatever reason.

Mr. Tweak gets in the car and we start the drive. We all cheer, because, fuck, that took a long time. I stare out the window at the city life around us. LA is so different from home. We’re maybe ten minutes in when Eric says, “Can I have the AUX cord please?”

Kyle and I groan, knowing what he’s gonna play. Kyle says, “Cartman, I swear to God—”

Mrs. Tweak hands him the cord. I see the grin on his face when he plugs it in. And Lady Gaga begins to play. Like really, how the  _ fuck  _ do the others not suspect  _ at all  _ that Eric is gay, or bi at least? It’s kind of crazy. I mean, they  _ tease  _ him about it once and awhile, but it’s never serious.

The first song that comes on is “Poker Face.” Eric begins screaming the words at the top of his lungs. We burst into a fit of laughter at the way his voice screeches. Butters joins in, then Tweek. Craig rolls his eyes and starts monotonously singing. Soon, all of us are belting out the song.


	8. Stan Marsh

**Happiest place on Earth, and I'm still depressed.**

Dude, I haven’t been to Disneyland in a _long_ time. It’s almost depressing, and I would know all about that. Maybe because it’s a Tuesday and still June, not as many people as I imagined are milling about. But that’s better for us. Shorter lines means more rides. Not that it matters, I guess, if we’re gonna be here all day. The sun beats down on my shoulders as we walk into the park. Music plays from hidden speakers, kids of all ages run around with their parents.

“Where to first?” Tweek’s dad asks. He holds a map in front of him, squinting at it. “Adventureland is right this way.” He points to the left.

“Then let’s go there,” Cartman says, already walking that way. He irritably pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. He got the Ray Ban Clubmasters, and he somehow makes it work. And whether it’s coincidental or not, Colonel Sanders had the same style glasses. Cartman got his pair during the last week of school, but it was a little overdue. All of middle school, he sat at the front of our classes because he couldn’t read the board from anywhere else in the room. Even still, he would have to squint and crane his neck and ask one of us what that word was.

The rest of us are forced to follow him. Kyle snorts, shaking his head. He finally decided to take off his hat, letting his red curls free. I like his hair. I wish he’d show it off more.

“We should go on the Indiana Jones ride first,” Tweek suggests. The name stabs me with a sharp pain, but I ignore it for the sake of not ruining the trip. Tweek doesn’t even have a map. Does he come here so often that he’s memorized where all the attractions are? Because if so, that’s awesome. Kyle and I trade impressed looks.

Up ahead, Cartman waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Now let’s just hurry before the lines start piling up.”

Kyle’s brows furrow together. He mouths _The lines start piling up_. He looks at me. I snicker. He says only to me, “How does that make sense to him?”

I shrug and shake my head, laughter increasing. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Ky’s face is priceless.

 

If you’ve been to Disneyland, you know what I’m looking at. If you haven’t, go to Disneyland as soon as you can because I don’t feel like describing it all. To be broad, there are lots of colors and people and it’s pretty awesome. Despite getting our asses kicked by Mickey Mouse in fourth grade, the guys and I still love this place.

Waiting in line, Cartman groans loudly. There’s not even that many people in line, which is a shocker. I glanced at the sign, reading the wait is only ten minutes. It’s pretty good for a theme park like Disneyland, but Cartman has no patience. I’m pretty sure Cartman’s very presence triggers Kyle, because he’s bristling with his arms crossed and a scowl on his mouth. Ky’s gone through a growth spurt this year. All our lives in the time we’ve known each other, we’ve been the same height. But now he’s, like, two inches taller.

I guess we’ve all gone through changes. Craig’s still tall as fuck, Tweek has finally laid off coffee (his withdrawal was kind of terrifying though), Jimmy actually makes some decent jokes, Token’s richer, Clyde doesn’t cry as often, Kenny’s the best looking guy in school according to the girls, Butters isn’t as naive anymore, Ky’s also taller, and Cartman’s mostly the same. Except he somehow lost some weight. Some. Not much. He’s still fat. But still. As for me, I’m sadder, don’t cut my hair as often, and I’ve sworn off dating Wendy. My life’s always been a mess, but now it’s more so.

Ky continues to grind his teeth. I sigh, tilting my head at him. “What’d Cartman do now?”

When Ky looks at me, his expression softens. “You know how he made a stupid fan page about us back in sixth grade?”

I nod.

“Well, he took a picture of us last night and posted it!” he exclaims.

“Why don’t you just unfollow the page?” I ask. Back in sixth grade, Cartman was drinking from his water bottle after PE. Just to mess with him, Kyle recorded while I squeezed the bottle, drenching Cartman. Naturally, he was pissed he was wet and he was out of water. I posted it on my Instagram. He made the fan page as a form of revenge. A good one, at that. The girls and adults love that gay shit.

Ky throws his hands up in the air. “So I can report the pictures. But for some reason, it does nothing.”

I bite back a grin. Ky’s thing is claiming not to let Cartman get to him, then letting Cartman get to him. The line shifts forward. “Just ignore him, dude. We’re on vacation. Have some fun.” I poke his side. He swats my hand away, but I see the grin edging onto his face. I jab him quicker. He just smirks at me.

Up ahead, Cartman says, “Get a room!”

Ky and I stop to look at him. At first, I think he’s talking to Tweek and Craig, but they’re literally just talking while holding hands. Then I notice his eyes behind his glasses on us. Ky says, “Go fuck yourself, you narcissistic fatass.”

Instead of spouting his go-to insult, he immaturely sticks his tongue out at us and turns around to start up a conversation with Clyde. To be honest, I’d want to kill myself if I had to live with Cartman. Clyde must be a supernatural being or something for being able to live with Cartman.

The ride experience is indescribable. All of it is awesome. The _Pirates of the Caribbean_ ride was great. We all got soaked during Splash Mountain, which thank Jesus because we were burning. The Big Thunder Mountain ride has always been my favorite. I had to keep my cross necklace between my teeth to keep it from flying off. Tweek and Kenny tried to see who could scream louder. (Tweek, obviously.) Then we had lunch at the Hungry Bear Restaurant. We took pictures with people walking around in costumes as we passed them. Tweek totally flipped when he got a selfie with the Little Mermaid. Apparently, it’s his favorite Disney Princess movie. But we all have a favorite princess movie. That’s what Disney is known for. My favorite is _Princess and the Frog_ because I’d want to be turned into a frog. You’d have no worries except eating and getting eaten. It’s a weird reason, but a reason all the same. Because of our weird obsession with the princesses, we spent way too much time in Fantasyland. We all scare parents and their little kids when we start screaming on the teacups ride. Clyde and Craig make our cup go so fast, I was sure I was gonna barf when I got off. Kenny went full Princess Kenny mode when we went through the Sleeping Beauty castle. We all avoid most of Mickey’s Toontown to be safe. We go on the only rollercoaster there, then we ride like the wind, Bullseye. Either way, that area is more for small children, so we really have no place there.

But Tomorrowland is where the shit’s at. It looks so fucking awesome in the dark with all the lights on. We all run there, Craig at the head, dragging Tweek behind him. I hear him shout in his weird nasally voice, “We have to go to every single attraction here except for the monorail, which we’ll go on when we head back to the front!”

The first attraction we stumble upon is the _Finding Nemo_ submarine ride. _Finding Nemo_ is my favorite Disney movie. Maybe because it’s about fish, maybe because it’s just a wholesome story, I don’t know. Like Craig insisted, we go to every attraction Tomorrowland has to offer. He totally blows his shit when we go on the _Star Wars_ ride. He’s almost as bad as Kevin Stoley. Sure, he’s not a total geek, but he’s a space nerd. Everyone knows it too. It’s common knowledge. Literally everything he owns is space themed. Even his backpack and his Vans look like the fucking galaxy. But what can I say? He’s space-obsessed, I’m animal-obsessed. I’d be a hypocrite to say he was weird. Even though he _is_ weird.

We leave the park an hour before it closes so we can head over to a few fast food places before they close. We tiredly make our way back to the van. We’re pooped from all the excitement. I’ll probably end up falling asleep in the car. Five minutes on the road, Mrs. Tweak asks, “What do you guys want for dinner? There’s a nearby McDonald’s and a KFC—”

“Yes!” Cartman yells, startling the silence and all of us with his outburst. Tweek even shrieks.

Mrs. Tweak continues, “So ‘yes’ to KFC for the rest of you?”

We murmur in agreement.

Cartman sinks back into his seat, head knocking against Butters’ shoulder, who he’d startled from a light slumber. We’ve only been driving for five minutes, but Butters can magically drop into sleep instantly. Cartman sighs, “If KFC made a cologne that smelled like their gravy, I’d buy ten.”

“That’s probably true,” I say. Next to me, Kyle shakes his head, but I catch a glimpse of the smile he tries to hide.

 

Sitting at the restaurant, we’re the only customers here. The ten of us take up three tables moved next to each other. Tweek’s parents sit at a booth not too far from us. Despite the time and his signs of exhaustion previous, Cartman wolfs down his food. I’m convinced he doesn’t chew. Butters is practically lolling off into his mashed potatoes next to him. I watch Cartman take one of his drumsticks for himself. We’ve only been snacking since lunch, so naturally, we’re hungry.

Kyle takes sips from his soda, eyes half-lidded. We all probably look like him. While I try to eat, my hair keeps obnoxiously falling in my face. I have to push it back with the heel of my palm. Ky sighs. I glance at him to see him already looking at me. He turns to Tweek. “Tweek, can I borrow a rubber band?”

Tweek slides a red one off his wrist and hands it to Ky. He wears one all the time to snap his wrist whenever he’s feeling anxious or craving coffee when he can’t have it. I’ve asked him if it works, and he says it helps, so I took up the habit. I snap it whenever I’m feeling a little too down, but I don’t have one now because I lost it when I tried to shoot it at the back of Kenny’s head at Disneyland. Ky stands from his chair to tie the band around my bangs. When he sits back down, I jokingly ask, “How do I look?”

Ky snorts and snaps a picture to show me. I look exhausted with a bundle of black hair sticking straight up in the middle of my head. “I look like a unicorn,” I observe, going back to eating.


	9. Jimmy Valmer

**Sun's out, puns out. What else did you expect from me?**

Lucky for us, it’s extremely hot outside. It’s the perfect weather for swimming in the ocean. We’re all dreading leaving of the air conditioned house, which is understandable. None of us are used to intense heat. Maybe Tweek is, since he comes here so often. I still think it’s a bit insane he kept a secret like having an LA house from us. And Craig knew, but of course he didn’t tell us. He doesn’t tell us anything if we don’t ask. He could probably go a year without talking to us if we didn’t start conversations. Actually, he probably wants that.

Tweek’s mom herds us out of the house like a shepherd and her sheep. Clyde practically latches onto the side of the door to stay inside. Craig rolls his eyes and pries him off. Tweek and Token trade looks with each other. Mr. Tweak is in the lead, walking down the street. We’re going to get something to eat before we go to the beach, and since it’s so close, we can walk. The Frustrating Four bring up the rear while their plus one, Butters, walks alone in the middle. Craig falls into step next to him, adding him to the conversation he’s having with Clyde.

Token, Tweek and I are more fascinated with Los Angeles and the celebrities that are made here. Token and Tweek are the most musically-inclined. Tweek plays the piano and writes songs while Token plays bass. Both of them sing extremely well.

“We belong here. Don’t you think?” Token says. “You and me could make music. Jimmy, you can be a comedian. Well, you already wanna be that, but you know what I mean.”

Tweek’s fingers twitch at his sides. He’s developed a really good control over his tics, the way my stuttering has lessened. His hands go to twist the rubber band on his wrist. “I guess, man. But trying to get famous and being famous is so much pressure. When you’re trying to make your way, you gotta work hard, and you’ll get depressed when you don’t make it as soon as you hoped. But then when you  _ are _ famous, you gotta deal with a shit ton of rumors and gossip. And drama. God, I’m so sick of hearing about the fucking Kardashians. Literally no one cares,” he rambles.

Token and I laugh. He’s right, of course. There comes a point in time where you get over the Kardashians’ plastic looks and get fed up hearing about the stupid shit they get themselves into.

Five minutes later, we’re sat at the biggest booth the restaurant has to offer. We stare at the menus, looking for something to order. I’ll probably just get pancakes because you can’t go wrong with that.

After the waitress comes by and I order what I want, Tweek turns to me and says, “Last year when we came here, we went to Cheesecake Factory with my mom’s friend and her kid, and I ordered pancakes, but when I got them they were all undercooked inside so I had to pick around the edges. The daughter asked me if I wanted some of her pasta because she could tell I didn’t like my pancakes. But I told her I was fine. I ended up getting full off of virgin piña coladas.”

“Then I sin-sinc—really hope that doesn’t happen to me,” I say.

Craig slings an arm over Tweek’s shoulders. “I’ve seen, like, three gay couples already. Back home, I’ve seen one. Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave,” he says.

Tweek snorts, laying his head on Craig’s shoulder. “That’s because this is LA. Not the redneck part of Colorado.”

“God, we’re all white trash. Except Token and Craig, I guess, since he’s a fourth Peruvian. But you get what I mean,” Kenny says next to me.

“Kenny, y-you’re the most supreme white piece of trash of us all,” I joke. And because I have nothing better to do, I take a Supreme sticker from my backpack and slap it on his forehead. Token gave me the stickers a month ago because he knew I could make puns with them. He’s a good friend. “It’s the most designer thing you’ll have!”

Kenny’s eyes widen as he gasps. “Wow! I think I’ll keep this on forever! Thanks, Jimmy!” he says with almost honest enthusiasm.

Everyone at the table laughs. Eric exclaims, “Ooh! Ooh! Jimmy, can I _please_ have a few of those stickers? Please!” His hands are clasped together. We’re all surprised at his outburst and his begging.

I take five stickers from my backpack and hand them to him. “Sure.” Eric stares at the stickers as he takes them, awestruck. “What’s your fascination with them?” I wonder.

He shrugs. “I’ve been asking my mom to get me a Supreme hoodie since I first heard about it in sixth grade. Obviously, she wasn’t making enough money then, but I’m almost positive she’ll get it for me this year. It’s the only thing I asked for,” he explains.

“You just want it for the hype,” Kyle says.

“And so? It’ll be more expensive than any piece of clothing you have!” Eric retorts.

Stan says, “What about Token?”

We all look at Token. I say, “Nah. No one can have a more expensive wardrobe than Token.” Today, he flaunts a pair of Dolce & Gabbana boardshorts. He wears a T-shirt like the rest of us, but his is Gucci. I think he purposely clashes brands together to show how much money he has. Even if he claims he doesn’t flex on us.

Token sighs. “Really, guys. I’m just like you. There’s nothing special about me,” he insists. He  _ always  _ insists.

“Says the one wearing clothes worth more than my house,” Kenny says. “Hey, Token, care to lend a hundred?”

Token rolls his eyes. “Yeah right. Like I keep a hundred dollar bill on me. I’d get jumped!”

“You’d get jumped because of what you wear, then your money,” Craig corrects.

Token narrows his eyes at him. “Stop.” He turns back to Kenny. “Here, Kenny. You can have this.” He sticks his hand in his pocket and hands Kenny a twenty dollar bill. Kenny snatches it like a hungry wolf. He’s even salivating.

“Thanks, Token. You know, for a rich guy, you’re not bad,” he says.

“You could’ve stopped at ‘Thanks’,” Token grumbles.

Tweek pats his back. “Lighten up, man,” he says softly. Tweek is the only person who can call Token rich, and he won’t say anything about it. A lot of people make exceptions for Tweek. Probably because we’re all afraid of him. One, he’s one of the most popular kids in school and will probably always be. He’s friends with us, the Frustrating Four, Wendy and her girls, and the band of misfits, and the goths. He knows more people than the nine of us combined. Two, he boxes twice a week. Three, his boyfriend would literally kill for him. But four, Tweek’s a genuinely kind person, though he has a bitchy side. And him and Craig are the OG’s—original gays. (OGs our age, I mean. The OG OGs are Big Gay Al, Mr. Slave, and Mr. Garrison.)

The rest of us are pretty well known, but most of us aren’t on good terms with the people who know about us. Like the Frustrating Four. Everyone knows them, but only because they get into trouble all the time. People know Craig and Those Guys because we’re the more decent version of the Four. Token’s known for his money, mine for my jokes, Clyde for his goofiness, Craig for his good looks and gayness, and Tweek for a million reasons. I wonder if high school will be the same.

The wait isn’t long when our food arrives. We dig in on an instant. I finish first, letting out a loud belch. Craig raises an eyebrow and burps longer and louder. Tweek snorts a laugh into his water, sloshing water all over his face. It leaks out the corners of his mouth. Then he burps, blowing it in Craig’s direction. Craig’s nose wrinkles. Soon enough, everyone’s trying to burp louder and longer and smellier than the last.

Mrs. Tweak scoffs. “Oh, you all are disgusting!” she exclaims.

Tweek burps out, “Love—you—Mom.”

She looks at him unamused. She takes off the paper of her straw, rips off the end, wads it up, sticks it in the straw, and shoots it Tweek. The wad hits him in the forehead.

“Wow, Mom. Real mature,” he says.

She smiles at him.

Mr. Tweak says, “Well, if you’re all done, we should get going. I already paid so we can up and leave.”

We shuffle out of the booth and the restaurant. The sun continues to beat down on our skin. The beach is closer than I anticipated, and we’re there in no time. Everyone else runs ahead to the ocean while I lag behind. My crutches sink in the sand, slowing me down. I ignore the burning in my ears. One of the most frustrating things about my crutches is that I can’t always go places my friends can.

Mr. Tweak lays down a beach mat close to the water’s edge. His wife props up two chairs next to it, extending a hand to me. She helps me into one of them. “Are you okay right here?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m f-fine.” I’m not ashamed of being handicapped, but I will say it has its inconveniences.

Before we left for breakfast, we put on sunblock, so I’m not afraid of burning. I slide my clouts into my nose. The sky’s blue and clear of clouds while the waves lap at the sand. My friends run through the water, splashing each other and screaming. Kenny has a bucket in his hands, running it through the water. I watch him as he lugs it onto land with Clyde in tow. Before I know it, Kenny reels back his arms and throws the water at me.

I spit salt water. “Sun of a beach!” I exclaim.

Clyde points a finger gun at me. “Ayyy,” he says.

I also point at him, saying, “Ayyy.” Then I look up at Kenny. “What w-was that for?” I ask.

Kenny shrugs. “I figured it’d be kind of difficult for you to make it to the water, so I thought I’d bring the water to you.” He still has the Supreme sticker on his forehead.

“Thanks, Kenny.”

“No problem.”

Clyde pushes a palm against Kenny’s forehead. “You’re gonna get a fucked up tan if you keep that on,” he says.

“It’s worth it. Because it’s Supreme.”

Clyde nods in approval. “I gotchu.”

Kenny puts the empty bucket on my head. He pats it, making it echo around in my ears. “You have more of these stickers, right? In case it comes off, you know,” he says.

“Yep.”

“Nice,” Clyde says.


	10. Kenny McCormick

**That's PRINCESS Kenny to you, bitch.**

It’s been about four hours since I drenched Jimmy in ocean water. But, hey, it’s LA water, so maybe he’ll have an even  _ greater _ chance at becoming famous. The sun’s extra bright at this time of day. It’s a couple hours past noon, and we’re hungry. Well, I’m always hungry, so that doesn’t count. Mr. Tweak gives each of us ten dollars to get something from one of the nearby restaurants. He tells us to go as a group, since it’ll be less likely for someone to get kidnapped. Tweek twitches when he says it. His wife lays on the beach mat on her stomach, asleep as she tans. If she were awake, I swear, she would’ve scolded her husband for it.

I nudge Clyde as we start to walk away. To him, I murmur, “Tweek’s mom is… kinda hot, don’t you think?”

He nods. “I one hundred percent agree.”

I glance at Tweek on Craig’s back as they start walking towards the street of shops up ahead. “Tweek looks a lot like his mom. He’s got, like, none of his dad in him,” I say.

“I think he’s relieved from that,” Clyde tells me.

I “Hm” in response. My stomach growls. I quicken my pace, eager to get something to eat. Clyde follows.

The walk isn’t exactly short. We have to cross a few streets, me being extra cautious to not get hit by a car. You have no idea how often that happens. It’s depressing. Since we’re still pretty close to the beach, there are a few chicks walking around in bikinis. Clyde and I gossip to each other about which bikini is more revealing, which rack is better. It’s hard to decide.

We go to some restaurant and have burgers. Except for Stan. He gets whatever vegetarian option there is. We can’t get  _ much  _ because of the ten dollars we each have, but we make do. Cartman is deeply disappointed, unable to get any appetizers and dessert if he also wanted a drink. Leo pats his arm reassuringly, a sympathetic look on his face.

“It’s okay, Eric,” he says. He smiles a small smile that carries something more than just a smile, you get me?

And that’s the thing. Lately, Cartman and Leo have been acting so…  _ strange.  _ I mean, yeah, Leo’s naturally friendly and wants to be nice to everyone, but his kindness towards  _ Cartman  _ of all people goes deeper than that. I don’t know what’s off about them, but I know I’m not imagining it, though I don’t know if the other guys have picked up on it yet. I just can’t put my finger on it.

Our orders arrive and I forget about my musings. My mouth waters at the burger in front of me, with the lettuce peeking out the sides. My stomach growls. I throw on ketchup and some mustard, then I dig in. I moan at the taste.

Clyde snickers around his mouthful. Token reminds me, “You’re in a public setting.” He gestures to the adults and families around us, all paying attention to themselves.

I lick off the ketchup at the corner of my mouth. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

Fifteen minutes pass. By then, we’re all finished eating and are waiting for the waiter to come by and pick up the check. We put together the money, a hundred dollars in total. That could pay for a whole week’s worth of food for my family. But we don’t go to bed hungry as often anymore. Not since Kevin got his job as an auto mechanic and I started working at Tweek Bros along with City Wok. Don’t ask me how I juggle two jobs and school and my social life, because I wouldn’t have an answer for you. Let me just say it isn’t easy. Nothing comes to me easily. It seems like I have to work for everything. Not that I mind. Not anymore. I’ve learned to live with it.

The waiter finally comes by and collects the check. Then we leave, retracing our steps back to the beach. I stick in the middle of the group. I’ve learned from past experiences that walking at the back or front down the street makes me a target. If I’m in the middle, then a car can’t plow through and kill us all. Because that never happens. And I don’t  _ want  _ it to happen. If someone had to die, I’d want it to be me, because I’ll just come back. Perks of being immortal.

Back at our little spot on the Venice Beach sand, I run to the water with Stan at my heels. The water is cold as fuck, but it feels good in the blistering sun. Blisters. Wow, I hope I don’t get those. I look back and see Tweek reapplying his sunblock. He’s smart like that. Paranoid too. But smart. I weigh my options of staying in the water and getting a shit sunburn, or going back onto land to reapply and prevent it all. I pick the latter.

At the blanket, Tweek smears sunscreen over Craig’s face. The stoic Tucker boy just goes with it, because that’s how he is with his beloved boyfriend. It’s cute.

“Tweek, where’s the sunblock?” I ask.

Craig hands me the spray kind. I take a few steps back, coating my skin because fuck sunburn. Satisfied, I sprint back towards the water, screaming like a madman. I aim myself at Cartman as I jump on to his back. He screams like a little girl, leaning back, but otherwise supporting my weight.

“Dammit, Kenny!” he exclaims. “The fuck!”

I laugh and fall off him with my arms in a T. Cold salt water envelopes me. I meet the sandy bottom not long after. I sit up, half my torso underwater. That’s the thing with being afraid of dying—and not because I’m scared of death—but because of the pain it brings. It makes me extra careful. I can’t be reckless. I stick to shallow waters no deeper than my knees in fear of getting bit by a shark or something.

I shake my head, sending droplets of water in all directions. I squint up at Leo smiling down at me. The sun behind him casts a gold halo around his head. He extends a hand to me, pulling me to my feet.

“You sure gave us a scare, Kenny,” he says.

I smirk, putting my hands on my hips. “I know.”

Cartman rolls his eyes, probably pissed with my unexpected appearance. He wades through the light waves, making his way towards Kyle and Stan. I look at Leo. He looks at me with baby blue eyes. I raise an eyebrow. “I think Cartman needs to lighten up a bit, don’t you think?”

A mischievous grin that doesn’t fit on Leo’s face splits across his features. Despite what his expression gives off, he says, “Oh, I dunno. He’ll be real sore with us.”

“Aw, c’mon. You know, I don’t think the T in Eric T. Cartman stands for Theodore. That sounds too fancy for someone who’s a sociopath. I think the T stands for Trouble. Furthermore, he’ll cause trouble no matter what we do. Maybe it’s better if we get it out of his system early, hm?”

Leo puts a finger to his lip, thinking. “It has a nice ring to it. Eric Trouble Cartman.”

Tweek passing by with Craig in hand sings, “ _I knew you were trouble when you walked in._ ”

Craig snorts, but grins in a way only Tweek can make him grin. “Really, Tweek?”

The sunflower-blonde shrugs. “I couldn’t resist.”

I glance back at Leo to see him looking at Cartman. His expression is indifferent, devoid of emotion. The wind ruffles his bleach blonde hair. I follow his line of sight. Cartman stands with Kyle and Stan, talking about who knows what. But Kyle isn’t screaming, so they must be having a normal conversation. The ocean laps at my shin, bringing my attention back to Leo.

“Don’t you think Cartman’s been acting weird lately?” I wonder. Leo blinks a couple of times before looking at me.

“Yeah. But I dunno what it is. He’s just different,” he says.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Cartman starts walking back to the mat.

Water is flicked up at me. I jump, head whipping around to Leo. He giggles and kicks more water at me. “So you wanna play it like that?” I ask. “All right.” I retaliate, but Leo runs away from me, albeit slowly because of the water.

I chase after him and am reminded of when I accompanied him to Hawaii back in fourth grade. That was fun, and I wouldn’t hate it if it were to happen again.

This goes on for some time, me and Leo chasing each other. But then Tweek brings out the big guns. Literally. He tosses each of us one, and we move to fill them up. Tweek, the cheater, had his gun already filled with ice fucking cold water. He open fires, leaving the rest of us screeching as we desperately try to urge our guns to fill faster. Tweek cackles like a madman, but Craig, good old Craig, gets his revenge by shooting a stream of ocean water into Tweek’s mouth.

Tweek hacks and doubles over, spitting the water. “Fuck you!” he screams with a grin. He focuses his gun on Craig.

The last bubble escapes my gun’s tank. I cap it and whirl to shoot someone, but I’m beat to it. Someone shoots my ass. I turn back around to see Leo covering his laugh with a hand.

“You could’ve asked,” I tease, pulling the trigger on him.

I’m pretty sure we’ve become the biggest attraction after five minutes. We have onlookers, probably wondering why the fuck ten fourteen-year-olds are playing with water guns like a bunch of fourth graders. But the bottom line is that we’re all having fun and getting along. It’s nice.

 

With the liquid golden sun sinking behind the buildings, and the sky pink and orange, we lay on the sand and the beach mat. Jimmy sits in a chair, sipping from a Sprite can, peering over Clyde’s shoulder as we flip through some Hollywood magazine. We try to decide who’s hotter.

Token asks the air, “Where are Butters and Cartman?”

Everyone looks around. He’s right. Two of us are missing. The fat one and the innocent one. No wonder it was so quiet and chill.

“How long have they been gone?” Tweek asks. There’s a warble of panic in his voice.

Craig kisses his cheek to calm him down. “They couldn’t have gone far. Don’t worry.”

Jimmy says, “Should w-we look for them?”

Kyle cups his hands over his mouth before he yells, “Cartman, where the fuck are you?”

Our heads spin when we hear loud panting and the rustle of sand. Cartman lags behind Leo as they run toward us. “Dammit, Butters,” he wheezes. “Slow the fuck down.”

Leo collapses next to me, not even out of breath. “Sorry, fellas. We had to use the bathroom,” he says.

“You went together?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

Tweek says, “Actually, that buddy system thing is a good idea. Who knows what kind of creeps lurk around here.” Of course he would say something like that.

Cartman topples over onto the sand, still struggling to catch a breath.

“Why did you run back?” Stan asks, staring at Cartman with a mix of disgust and curiosity.

“We thought something bad was happening. We got scared,” Leo explains.

“No.” Cartman pushes himself into a sitting position, dusting off the sand clinging to his gut. “ _Y_ _ ou  _ were the one who got scared. You started running and I had to follow because you were the one who knew how to get back,” he corrects.

Leo shrugs. Cartman scowls at him.

Silence passes for a moment. Well, it’s not complete silence. Strangers talk. Kids scream and laugh. Music plays from the Bluetooth speaker Mr. Tweak brought.

“Today was fun,” Clyde says. “Am I the only one who notices how things are ten times more fun when we’re getting along as a group?”

Kyle tilts his head. “You’re right. Like back in fourth grade when we would play those role playing games with all of us.”

“Yeah, we should do this more often.” Stan draws circles in the sand with his finger.

Craig says, “What if we came up with, like, an alliance or something?”

“Alliance? That’s stupid,” Cartman objects.

“I mean, like, instead of us having to get along like friends, we can be allies or something. Like we can still get into arguments and stuff, but we’re there for back up if need be,” Craig clarifies.

Tweek rifles through his backpack, pulling out a notebook and a pen. He clicks the pen and flips open the scribbled over cover. He starts writing stuff down.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“My notebook where I write my songs. But right now, I’m recording the laws of the alliance.” He holds up the notebook for us to see. At the top “The Alliance™” is scribbled in Tweek’s scraggly handwriting.

“This reminds me of when we played fighters of Zaron,” Token says.

“Yeah. It does,” Leo says.

Tweek’s hand flies across the paper. “So we can get into arguments, but we can also be back up for each other if the situation calls for it.” He voices what he writes down. “‘There is no longer a feud between the two gangs. If need be, one group could call the other for backup if the situation calls for it.’ What else?”

Kyle offers, “What about, ‘They can still go compete, even hate each other, but they can’t try to kill each other.’ Because that’d be treason, and a gateway to a war.”

Tweek echoes Kyle, hand still moving at rapid speed. “Anything else?”

“We need to have regular meetings, to make sure no one’s broken the alliance without our knowledge,” Token adds. “We can alternate where to have the meetings, but the meeting have to be every fifth of each month.”

“What a-about every fifteenth, so it’s kind of in the middle,” Jimmy says.

“The alliance should last throughout all our school years. Especially in high school because it’s high school. It’s not middle school anymore,” I say.

Tweek nods along. “Is that it?”

Stan looks around. “I think so.”

“Wait, the Converse rule,” Token said.

“Oh yeah.” Tweek scribbled on the paper. “Now it’s finished,” Tweek says. “All we need to do is sign it.”

“Can I read it?” I ask. Tweek nods and hands me the notebook. I clear my throat, putting on the falsetto also known as Princess Kenny. “‘Today, on this last week of June of the summer of eighth grade, the two sides of Stan and Craig join together. There is no longer a feud between the two gangs. If need be, one group could call the other for backup if the situation calls for it. They can continue to compete, even hate each other, but they can’t try to kill each other. That’d be treason, and therefore, a gateway to a war that would shatter this alliance. On every fifteenth of each month, a meeting will be held at a volunteer’s house. These meetings are mandatory. This alliance is set to last throughout the time we are in school. Another will be made if it needs to be extended. Every member must wear Converse, the official shoe of this alliance. And here, on this last week of June, this alliance was formed.’” I lower the notebook, returning to my normal voice. “Cool.”

“Each of us need to sign it,” Tweek says. He hands me the pen.

“Can I sign it as Princess Kenny?” I ask.

“As long as your first and last name is on there.”

So I sign, then I pass it to Leo. It makes its way around the circle until it’s back to Tweek. He looks it over. He tears the page from its spiral bindings, setting it in the center of the circle so all of us can see it.

“Now we just need a name for all of us,” Leo points out.

Kyle steeples his fingers against his mouth. “Okay, so we know we have Craig and Those Guys and Stan’s gang—”

“Who the fuck decided this was Stan’s gang?” Cartman says.

I roll my eyes. “Cartman, shut the fuck up. It can’t be your gang because we all hate you. We all have to respect the leader mutually.”

Cartman narrows his eyes, muttering, “Stop trying to sound smart, Kenny. You’re fooling no one.”

Kyle continues, “Anyway. We have Craig’s guys and Stan’s gang. But as all of ten of us, what do we call this, like Butters said?”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Craig answers, “Homosexuality.”

“Craig, you and Tweek are the only h-homos here,” Jimmy says.

“Tweek and his bitches?” Stan says. We all glance at Tweek.

“No!” he snaps, flushing pink.

“The loser squad?” Clyde offers. Sounds good to me. We all suck.

“Clyde, you’re the only loser here,” Cartman retorts.

Kyle opens his mouth to object, but Token says flatly, “The Gucci Gang.”

We all look to him, silent.

“...I like it,” I say, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, me too,” Leo says.

Tweek plucks at Token’s white Gucci T-shirt. “But it only applies to one of us.”

“It’s not about that, Tweek,” Clyde says. “It’s about the memes.”

I high-five Clyde, smirking.


	11. Craig Tucker

**We never go out of style.**

“So we’re the Gucci Gang now?” I ask. “That’s gotta be trademarked. And hell of cringey.”

“Whatever, Craig,” Clyde says loudly.

Tweek fiddles with his phone, and the song playing faintly changes and increases in volume. He puts on something everyone’s familiar with. When he recognizes it, stupid Clyde stands up and does some stupid-ass dance, and I want to smack him. Kenny ends up joining him. They’re basically the same person, except Kenny is a smidge less dumb than Clyde. A smidge.

Then I realize Tweek doesn’t listen to this type of music. I glance at his screen to see him playing the song from YouTube. I raise an eyebrow at him. He raises his eyebrow back. Then he puts a finger to my lips. “Shh,” he says. His hand shifts around to my cheek and he kisses me.

The song ends finally (thank God), and a new one starts. I recognize the sound of the beginning of the song. Tweek grins at me. Cartman and Kenny seem to also recognize it, as when both start bobbing their heads to the beat. When the vocals start, Tweek screams, “ _Midnight_

 _You come and pick me up no headlights..._ ”

Cartman continues, “ _Long drive_

_Could end in burning flames or paradise_

_Fade into view_

_It’s been a while since I have even heard from you… heard from you…_ ”

Kenny sings, “ _And I should just tell you to leave ‘cause I_

_Know exactly where it leads but I_

_Watch us go round and round each time…_ ”

Tweek jumps up and runs in front of Stan and Kyle, pointing to Stan as he aggressively sings, “ _You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye..._ ”

He swivels to Kyle.

“ _And I got that red lip classic thing that you like_

 _And when we go crashing down we come back every time..._ ”

Finally, the title of the song comes up and he shouts, “ _'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style!_ ”

Stan and Kyle trade confused looks as everyone starts laughing. I read Kyle lips as he says to Stan, “ _Red lip classic_?”

“Oof,” I mutter.

Cartman perks up. “I’m changing the bio of the fan page to that.” He takes out his phone to presumably change the bio to his Stan and Kyle fan page bio to _We never go out of style_ and not _Oof._

Those poor idiots, Stan and Kyle. The really have no idea what style stands for, don’t they? Tweek continues to dance and sing, attracting attention. He bounces over to me and takes my hands.

Basically the rest of the time at the beach continues like this. Tweek shouting lyrics to Taylor Swift songs and somehow getting everybody to join in. It’s fucking weird. But what can I say? It’s Tweek, and Tweek’s gorgeous.


	12. Tweek Tweak

**"Magic Mirror on the wall..." because it's not "Mirror, Mirror." What the fuck.**

As per usual, I’m up before the rest of my friends. Our Gucci Gang. God, that’s such a stupid name, but it’s so appropriate. I creep up the stairs, listening to the wood softly creak under my feet. I know my parents are already awake. Dad was making coffee. Now he’s out in the backyard, reading out there.

My parents’ door is open a crack. I push it open wider, seeing Mom at her vanity putting makeup on. She glances up at me. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says.

I murmur a “Morning,” and put my head on her shoulder. Her hand lands in my hair.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I just wanted to thank you for letting my friends stay over. I know that we use this time for us, but I’m glad.”

I look at us in the mirror. She smiles her pretty smile at me. “Of course.” She squeezes my nose.

If I was still in fourth grade, things wouldn’t be this way. I let go of my mom, climbing on top of her made bed as the memory floods back to me.

I sat, twitching, on the couch, eyes locked on the TV, though not registering what I was seeing. My head was too busy drowning in thoughts. Every light in the house was on. My parents were working at the coffee shop and I was home alone, with the monsters lurking in the shadows. The talking television was just a droning robot speaking inaudible words.

Suddenly, the door flew open. It hit the wall with the loud bang. The thought of burglars ran through my mind, but my mom burst into the house, tears leaving mascara-stained paths down her cheeks. Her eyes, glowing with enlightenment, found her fragile, shaking son staring back at her, eyes wide in horror.

“Mom?” I squeaked. My head jerked. My mom was crying _—sobbing—_ in front of me. I didn’t like the sight. My mom wasn’t supposed to be crying. Her face wasn’t supposed to be red and blotchy. Her makeup wasn’t supposed to be running down her face. It wasn’t okay.

My mom slapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a sob as she sunk to the ground. Her eyes never left me. They gleamed like crystal, like the wool had finally been pulled from her eyes. I had always compared my parents to androids. Now my mom was a self-aware android. But being self-aware no longer made her robotic. It made her human. And androids don’t have feelings. If my mother _was_ a robot, then she wouldn’t be crying with tears rolling down her cheeks. They fell onto her lap, soaking through her apron. Her sobs came in desperate gasps for air. The winter turning to spring wind blew into the house, sweeping my mom’s hair in front of her face. She didn’t even bother to brush the strands away.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. She squeezed her bloodshot eyes shut, like if she looked at me for too long, I’d shatter like glass. Her voice wavered terribly as a waterfall of words spilled out of her mouth. “I—I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad mom. I’m sorry I’ve disregarded you for f-five years. I’m sorry for neglecting you, for—for ignoring you, for pretending you didn’t exist. I thought I was protecting you! And—and you know those special deliveries your father made you do? They were… meth runs. He did it for the ‘special’ customers. Then your dad started drinking the stuff too. ‘Just experimenting,’ he claimed. He didn’t bother swapping out the pots of coffee with meth in it, so I would try to make you your own to keep you away from that stuff. I didn’t want you to turn out like him. But sometimes, you'd beat me to the coffee machine and downed the tainted coffee before I c-could stop you. Oh God, what kind of mother am I? What kind of demon from Hell did I turn into? You deserve b-better. I’m not a good enough mother for you. I understand if—if you hate me.  _I_ hate me for treating you the way I do. I just hate _me._ I’m a waste of space. I’m sorry.” She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, trying to make the tears stop flowing. To try to pull herself together, to stop herself from being torn apart at the seams.

I was completely still, completely frozen as I watched my mom break down into tiny pieces. Meth. They put meth in their coffee at the shop for “special customers,” and those “special deliveries” I made when I was nine were meth runs. Try as my mom might, but she couldn’t keep me away from that stuff. My father’s careless mistakes and experimentation might’ve gotten me addicted to drugs, and that was something unforgivable.

Yet witnessing what was unfolding in front of me all with strange calmness coming from seemingly nowhere, all of the grudges I unintentionally held towards my mother unknotted in my chest. She tried to keep me away from the drugs, and trying counted for something, right? It wasn’t her fault my dad didn’t care. The ice around my heart and bones thawed enough for me to move. Without a single twitch, I got to my feet and stood in front of her. I stayed like that for a minute, staring down at my mom, who vulnerably sobbed in front of me. Her watery hiccups filled the house. It was the only sound I could hear, aside from my own pulse in my ears. Sitting on her legs, slouched over in defeat, I was taller than someone for the first time in my life.

Slowly, steadily, carefully, I wrapped my mom in a hug. I pulled us together, burying my face in her burning neck. After three heartbeats, her arms curled around her son’s small body. She cried into my shoulder, holding on to me for dear life. I tucked my feet underneath my legs, all while never letting go. I didn’t want to let go. “It’s okay,” I decided. “I forgive you.” I meant it.

Her nose pressed further into my shoulder, though gently. “But _why?_ After all I’ve done, after all the millions of ways I’ve screwed up, _why_ would you forgive me?” she wept.

I lifted a hand and nudged the door closed. I let my eyes shut as I whispered, “Because you’re my mom.”

“A _dreadful_ mom. You have no idea how horrible I am,” she spat. She let loose another sob that made my heart wrench and brought tears to my own eyes.

“ _My_ mom. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I… I forgive you because you realize you made mistakes. I know you can’t change the past, but I also know you can affect how the future turns out. You can be a good mom if you try.” Hushed, yet wise words from a little boy.

“I want to be a better mom. I want to take care of you. I want to stop neglecting you. I want to make you the center of my world again. I want to start over,” she sobbed.

I nuzzled my mom’s soft dirty blonde hair. “Then keep your promise,” I murmured.

Mom pulled back far enough so I could see her red face. I saw the way her shoulders slumped, like a hundred weights fell off of her. Like the pressure was finally gone. A soft sigh escaped her lips, blowing a piece of hair away from her pretty face. She gave me a teary smile before whispering, “What did I do to deserve a wonderful boy like you?”

I mirrored my mom’s small grin. I wiped away her blackened tears with my thumbs. Her eyes, always fading from blue to green, glimmered as she memorized my soft features, drinking me in for what felt like the first time. I kissed her damp cheek, loving the way she gazed at me like I was everything. “I love you,” I said.

Her bottom lip trembled as she restated my words. “I love you too, sweetie.” Her voice was thick with emotions she probably couldn’t put into proper words. She pulled me in for another hug. I held her embrace, wanting to crush the air from her lungs because I’d never felt so safe and secure as I did right at that moment. I felt like I had meaning to my life, like my monsters were finally crawling back into their holes. Because I was glowing. I was glowing because I finally had one of my parents recognize me. Even if my dad didn’t come home crying, my mom’s attention was all I needed. It’s not like my dad’s done anything to earn my trust in the first place. I wouldn’t have forgiven him even if he tried. My heart swelled and my tears finally fell. I allowed his sobs to mix with the quiet cries from my mom. At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

“Tweek?”

I blink back into existence. I sit up, propping myself on my elbows. “Yeah?”

Mom runs a brush through her hair. “Craig is looking for you downstairs.”

“Okay.” I jump to my feet and march downstairs, where I’m met with Craig’s morning embrace.


	13. Token Black

**We're all famous here. But me more so.**

At 11 a.m., we’re eating breakfast Mr. Tweak made, dressed and ready to go. Today’s the day we go to Universal Studios and the Hollywood sign. I’ve only ever seen the Hollywood sign in pictures. Never in real life. But it’s just a sign in the end.

With everyone ready to go, we get in the car. The drive goes similar to the drives previous. Cartman gets handed the AUX cord and plays Lady Gaga. White people are so weird.

The closest we get is on a hill with houses around us. Dimly, I wonder if any celebrities live in these houses. They’re pretty big, after all, and it’s on a hill. Most rich people houses are on hills. I would know, even though I don’t live on a hill.

Clyde steps out of the van. Everyone follows. Craig and Butters take out their phones to take pictures. Clyde next to me is on his phone, but not for the camera. I peer over his shoulder. On his screen, Bebe’s Instagram page is on full display. He likes her most recent picture with my girlfriend, Nichole.

I say, “Ooh, damn, Clyde’s on Bebe’s Instagram again! You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Jimmy comes over. He jokes, “Clyde’s f-f-fu-fucking whipped.”

Craig sighs. “Dude, just ask her out.”

“Would you all please shut the fuck up?” Clyde snaps. His blush is evident on his white cheeks. “I’m not in love with her. I just think she’s cool.”

“You’ve been thinking that since seventh grade,” I say.

Clyde glares at me. “Dude, I thought you were on _my_ side.”

I laugh out loud. “I _am_ on your side. We’re all trying to get you to ask her out. Even your brother is on your side. He gave Bebe your number _for you._ All you have to do is ask. C’mon, Clyde. It’s not that hard.”

Clyde continues on glaring. “My brother also happens to be the one who got you and Nichole together.”

“Your brother is also the one who chopped up his half brother’s parents and fed them to him as chili,” Kyle points out.

Clyde’s glare falls, casting his eyes to Cartman gazing at the Hollywood sign. Kenny next to him has his mouth moving, talking about whatever. Clyde briefly looks afraid, but it disappears just as quick as it appeared.

I glance back at the Hollywood sign, deciding I can send a picture to Nichole. We’ve been together since fourth grade. It’s crazy to think it’s even possible, but then you have Tweek and Craig.

The air is warm in California, something I’m not used to back home. Back in South Park, it’s cold and the highest it gets is the seventies. The breeze is light and feels good, not like the harsh winds at home. But home is all I know, where all I love is.

One of these days, I’ll bring Nichole here.

Mrs. Tweak rolls down her window. “If you boys are done, get in the car so we can go to Universal. The drive’s not too long,” she says.

Cartman’s first in the car to sit front and center. I sit in the second row, next to Clyde. He was looking at his phone, but when he sees me next to him, he shuts it off and stuffs it in his pocket.

I snort. “Texting Bebe?” I tease.

“No,” he snaps. Then his phone dings. I raise an eyebrow, and he looks the other way.

Poor, lovelorn Clyde. He’s been screwed since seventh grade. And this time, I don’t think it will be like fourth and third grade. This time, I firmly believe it’s permanent. But I get where he’s coming from. I’m pretty screwed up for Nichole too.


	14. Butters Stotch

**Oh hamburgers. We’re gonna get in trouble, aren’t we?**

Tweek at the head of the group freaks out as he leads us to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, ignoring everything else.

“We’ll come back, I promise! But Harry Potter first!” he swears.

“Actually,” Eric says from beside me, raising his voice above the rest, “I need to use the bathroom.” I catch the quick glance he throws at me from the corner of his violet eye behind his glasses. Eric has the prettiest eyes. Left brown, right violet. _His_ violet isn’t like Kenny’s violet though. Eric’s is less vibrant and takes on tints of deep blue in the sunlight. Like a twilight sky.

Tweek waves a dismissive hand. “Okay fine. The bathrooms in Harry Potter World are fucking awesome, by the way. We’ll stop by to the bathroom first, but I’m getting in line after, and I’m not waiting for anyone. So meet me at the Forbidden Journey.”

We pass a train that Tweek explains is the train from Platform 9 ¾. We enter the bathroom, where a female voice bubbles up. Kenny whistles lowly. “Where’s that voice coming from?” he asks.

“That’s Moaning Myrtle,” Tweek answers, pushing open an empty stall.

“Ooh! I like the sound of that!” Kenny exclaims.

“Gross, Kenny,” Tweek scoffs.

I wait for a vacant urinal. Eric comes up to me when everyone’s in a stall. He whispers, “When everyone leaves to get in line for the ride, stay here with me.” Then he disappears into a stall himself and the lock slides into place.

So I do as he says. I use the urinal when the man in front is finished. Back in fourth grade, I used to pull down my pants to piss, but I don’t do that anymore because I’ve learned how weird it makes me look. Tweek leaves first with Craig at his heels. Then Kyle and Token. Kenny, Jimmy, and Stan. Clyde is last to leave. As he washes his hands, he peers at me hanging by the hand dryers.

“Waiting for Eric?” he asks.

I nod.

“Make sure to be in line before we get on the ride. I have a feeling you and Eric wouldn’t wanna miss it, despite his needs.” He doesn’t bother running his hands under the dryer. He rubs his hands on his shorts and walks out.

As soon as he leaves, Eric emerges from the stall, probably purposely waiting for his brother to leave. Just because Clyde knows doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with public displays of affection around him. That’s what he told me a week after Clyde found out. Like everyone else, he washes his hands with soap and water. He sticks them under the dryer closest to me. I watch the droplets spread out over his hands and fall to the floor.

Collide. It’s the word I would use to describe me and Eric. Our worlds collided all those years ago, back in preschool when he first dubbed me “Butters.” Then it happened again in fourth grade when Kenny had the flu for a couple of weeks and they replaced him with me. His lips collided with mine when he kissed me the first time in seventh grade, when the world shifted. Our eyes collide every time they meet. And now we collide like two trains on their tracks.

Eric’s kisses are desperate and always leading to more. And sometimes he put his lips so close to mine, but they never touch, like there’s a war going on in his head and he’s frozen in place. And me, I just go with it like I always do. I did that with the first kiss, going with it. I did it in fourth grade with his schemes. I did it in preschool with the nickname. But I never knew _going with it_ could lead to me falling too. But maybe I wanted this, all those years ago. Eric’s always been different to me.

He’s stuck like that now as we stand by the hand dryers in the bathroom in Harry Potter World. Moaning Myrtle, as Tweek said, continues to speak in the background. Eric hovers not even an inch from my face. If one of us were to speak, our lips would brush. My heart aches with yearning for the familiar weight of his kiss. His warm, damp hands rest on my cheeks as he stares. His thumb starts rubbing my jaw. Then he finally kisses me. I’ve grown accustomed to his kisses, sometimes hungry, or sweet, or angry. This one is sweet, my favorite kind. But he pulls back right when it’s getting good, and I’m about to pull him in again when he lets go of me.

“Eric—” I start.

He shakes his head, hand sliding down to mine. Our fingers interlock. He pulls me into a stall and locks the door behind us. From the quickness of it all, the toes of my shoes are on top of his as he presses my back to the door. Concealed from potential eyes, he kisses me again. Freely and delicately. Pulls me into him. Arms around his neck. Hands on my back. The tilt of his head, deepening the kiss. His mouth leaves mine as he starts trailing kisses down my neck, but I stop him with my hand to his mouth. “What?” Eric grumbles, muffled.

“You can’t give me hickeys, because if you do, how am I supposed to explain where I got them?” I ask.

He takes my wrist and pins it next to my head. A scowl is on his face. “Ugh, Butters, you—”

Before he can insult me, I cut in, “Me what?”

His eyes are all droopy, expression dazed. His sigh ruffles my hair. “Just... shut up.” Eric presses another open-mouthed kiss to my lips. His grip on my wrist goes limp. Heat rushes through my veins and up my cheeks as I move to cradle his face. His tongue grazes mine, and I’m completely helpless against letting out a squeak.

It’s the last kiss, put on pause, before someone walks in. Eric and I trade looks. I quietly slide open the lock, leaving first. When the man is facing away from us, I wave at Eric to leave. We rush out of the bathroom together. The back of his hand brushes mine as we dodge bypassers to get to the ride. I don’t expect him to grab my fingers the way Craig does with Tweek. I don’t expect him to wrap his arm around me and pull me to his side. I don’t expect him to take my chin in his palm and kiss me with everyone looking. No matter how much I want him to.

But he does something that makes me blush and skip a step. He conspicuously leans to me and gently brushes his lips against the spot under my ear. So quietly it’s almost swept away by the crowds, Eric whispers, “I love you, B-Butts.”

My breath escapes my lungs without my consent. My heart takes its place in my throat, pounding like a drum. Or maybe that’s the performers we’re passing. Eric’s told me he loved me once before, back when he tricked me into thinking the world was ending so _he_ could go to Casa Bonita instead of me for Kyle’s birthday. But I didn’t know if he was serious or not after it all. He’d never repeated the words since then. In fifth grade, he told our table he’d never fall in love because it made people do stupid things. It made people like Stan follow Wendy around like a puppy, and love made his mom do things like date Clyde’s dad.

And B-Butts is his pet name for my nickname. Used first back when he got into that NASCAR scandal. He uses it more often ever since we got together. He doesn’t use it around our friends, though.

I think it’s a common misconception that Eric Cartman is a difficult person to commit to memory, because he’s so complicated and fucked up in the head, but once you really get to know him, memorizing him is real easy.

Before I can say anything, because I’m unsure if I was supposed to hear that, Eric trudges ahead, hands deep in the pockets of his shorts, shoulders hunched up to his ears. I’m left to follow him. I knock my knuckles together as I let him lead me to the Forbidden Journey. Eric bumps into people as he shoulders his way up to our group. I say “Excuse us” for him.

Regrouped, Stan asks, “What took you so long?”

Not missing a beat, Eric says, “I don’t wanna spend half an hour in line, so we waited for you to get here.” He gestures to the alcove containing the Sorting Hat.

“You still have to wait in line. You can’t avoid it all,” Kenny says.

Eric waves a hand. “I know, I know.”

Up ahead, Tweek says to Clyde and Jimmy and Token, “You guys need to be sorted.”

I shoulder through Stan to Tweek. “Can I be sorted too?” I ask.

Tweek nods. “Obviously. Everyone needs to be. I’m a Hufflepuff, Craig’s Ravenclaw.”

My mind blanks. I have general knowledge about Harry Potter, but not much. “I… would be Hufflepuff too, right?”

Tweek scans me. “Well. Clyde would be Gryffindor, along with Kenny and Jimmy, I think. Kyle, Craig, and Token are Ravenclaws one hundred percent. Cartman’s Slytherin obviously. I think Stan would be a Hufflepuff, along with me and you.”

I beam. “Cool!”

The line shifts forward and we move with it. Tweek continues to gush about Harry Potter, and soon enough, everyone’s listening in. I’m listening intently, because Tweek has that effect on people, making them listen, when I feel fingers brush the nape of my neck. I turn to my right, seeing Eric standing next to me. He’s not looking at me, instead pretending to listen to Tweek, but I know it was him and that he’s not listening to Tweek. The line moves. I link our pinkies, so subtle that nobody can notice it unless they were to look real close.

I push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You kinda look like a fat Harry Potter with your glasses, y’know,” I joke. “Except it’s a different style. It’s not those round wire ones.”

Eric frowns at me, taking my hand off his face. “Don’t test me, Butters.” The flush in his cheeks is obvious.

I want to wrap my arms around him and kiss him and mumble I love him against his mouth. But I can’t. Because we’re not Tweek and Craig, comfortable in our sexuality. Eric’s not comfortable with telling people yet, and I’m not ready for people to know either. What if my parents hear? What’ll they do?

The mere thought of them sends me into a hole. It was sixth grade when they started to ignore me. Like the time I came home one day and greeted them. They didn’t reply. I thought I was in deep trouble, but it continued on. And on. And I got used to it. At the dinner table, the silence was stifling. It choked me. So one day I dared to take my plate up to my room. They didn’t say a word. And they haven’t said a word. The only time they talk to me is to ground me.

I fall deeper, slipping into the things that made everyone concerned about me back in middle school.

The way Eric jostles me back into reality makes me realize we’ve moved up in line. Now we stand on steps. And my pinkie is still linked with his, but my palm’s all sweaty. I meet his eyes. He flicks his gaze over to the right. I look there to see Kenny looking at me expectantly.

“Wh-what?” I squeak. My voice shakes.

Kenny repeats, “You good, Leo?” and I realize I’m crying.

I touch my cheek as Eric snaps, “God, Kenny, why do you have to call him Leo like some stuck up bitch?”

Kenny snaps back, “Why should I call him a name you made up for him back in _preschool_ because you thought his birth name was stupid and you couldn’t remember it since you made no effort to?”

They jump back into the same old argument about my name. I wipe away the tears with the palm of my free hand. I sniffle and the argument stops. Eric and Kenny look at me with soft expressions. I can see it in Eric’s eyes how much he wants to pull me to his chest. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe that’s what _I_ want. Kenny pats my arm.

“It’s okay, Leo.”

Eric still bristles at the name. I let go of his pinkie to scrub both hands over my face. By now, everyone’s attention is on me. But they don’t ask why I’m crying like a little pussy. They know how sometimes at random intervals I’ll break down. They all look at me with pity, until the line shifts and they turn back around, conversations resuming. I can tell Kenny is reluctant to turn around. But eventually he does and joins Token and Jimmy’s conversation.

Again, I feel Eric’s fingers flutter across the back of my neck. We’re the same height. I used to be taller than him in fourth grade, and now he’s gotten taller, but not tall enough to tower over me. I like that. I like how we very literally see eye to eye, and I don’t have to look up to him and he doesn’t have to look down on me. Immediately, he retracts his hand and scowls down at his black Converse. We all wear Converse, whether it’s white like mine or red like Craig’s or pink like Kenny’s, since it was made our official group shoe, except Tweek, who broke his a while ago. I still kinda feel bad about it.

“Eric?” I whisper. It gets lost in the crowd, but he still meets my eye like he heard me and quickly grabs me by my face and kisses me. But it’s quick. I barely feel it. Then he shoulders his way up to Kyle and Stan. And I’m alone. I wonder if anyone else saw, and why he didn’t seem to care about that.

When we finally get on the ride, I forget all about my issues. I bounce in my seat as we wait for the ride to start.

“Excited?” Kenny asks.

I bob my head.

“Me too. I just hope I don’t die.”

“K-Kenny!” I scold. He makes such morbid jokes.

He just shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s true.”

I sigh, unwilling to let his jokes burn out my excitement. Token and Jimmy are also chattering excitedly in our little cart thingy.

Kenny says, “When you came here last time back in fourth grade, this wasn’t here, right?”

I answer, “Nope. This is my first time too.” And as soon as I say it, our cart jolts and the ride begins.

We exit the building, me grouped in between. We finish off all the rides in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter after each of us had a cup of Butter Beer. I think Eric wanted more than just one.

“What’s next?” Clyde asks.

“The closest thing is the Walking Dead walkthrough,” Kyle says, peering over a map.

As we start walking, Tweek explains, “It’s exactly what it sounds like. You walk through a building in the Walking Dead theme, while people dressed as zombies try to scare you. But I’ve been through it, and it’s not that bad.”

At the ride entrance, I’m about to walk through when Eric catches my elbow and hisses in my ear, “Just go with what I do, got it?”

He doesn’t let me answer, turning to Mrs. Tweak. Everyone starts lining up except for us, but like always, I don’t question Eric. He says, “Um, Mrs. Tweak, Butters says he’s not comfortable going through this. I can stay with him out here.”

I blink, taken aback. Well now, I know I’m a scaredy cat, but I’m not afraid of people dressed up as zombies! But Eric said to go with it, so I will. I keep my mouth clamped shut. His hand even tightens around my elbow as a reminder. I have no idea what he’s planning, but it makes my stomach churn. I really hope he doesn’t do anything that’ll get us in trouble. I hate it when he does that, but I also kinda love it. I kinda live off the thrill.

Mrs. Tweak smiles kindly. “If you’re okay with waiting here with him, that’s fine with me. But don’t go far, and don’t talk to strangers.” With that, she follows her son’s group of friends, leaning into her husband.

When she’s out of earshot, I whirl on Eric and say, “What was that for? I’m not afraid of th—”

A pair of lips cut me off. Eric tilts his head. I cover his hands on my neck with mine, and I let my eyes close. He draws me into him, or maybe that’s me bringing myself to him.

“I told you to go with it, didn’t I?” he asks.

I nod, already edging closer to him. It’s awfully bad that I need him as much as he needs me. I feel his hands slip out from under mine, and I stumble into his absence. I open my eyes, seeing him just out of reach, smirking at me. I blush, and he laughs and takes my hand.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

We decide on leaning our backs against the building next to the exit. At first, I insisted it wasn’t a good idea since it was an attraction, but then Eric pointed out how it was just for show. Nothing’s really in there. We don’t say much of anything at first. Eric only twists and untwists our hands. Like he’s nervous about something, but Eric’s never nervous. I take a risk and put my head on his shoulder.

“You okay, Eric?” I wonder, gazing up at him.

“I’m fine.”

“How come you kissed me in line even though the—the people behind us coulda been lookin’?” I ask.

He snorts like I’m completely stupid. “ _Because,_ B-Butts. Those people are strangers. We’ll probably never see them again.”

“Probably,” I agree. Satisfied with his answer, I lift my head and wrap my arms around him like I wanted. We collide, and it’s mutual.

I remember the first time we kissed open-mouthed, and I had to pull away because he wasn’t doing it right. He was stunned when I showed him the right way. Even if it was me leading, I was the one melting into him. And he loves the feeling of people submitting to him. But ever since I showed him the proper way, he’s always the one to take control, just like with everything else. It still makes me melt.

As we pull away our lips brush. Breathless. For a moment, I wonder if that’s it. If that’s all we can get in today, but then he drags me closer to him, pulling me into his lap. He dives right back in, kissing me hard, biting my lip as he so often loves to do. It’s so shameless. It makes me blush and go hot all over. We’re in a public place, and we’re kissing like there’s no tomorrow. I grip his shirt. Eric’s hands wander, sliding up my thighs, sending shivers down my spine. They curl around my hips and squeeze, and I forget that we’re in public.

Then Eric freezes, mouth agape on mine. I make a noise of complaint, flicking my tongue against his. Instead of reciprocating like I want, he hisses, “Shit.” My eyes flutter open to see him staring over my shoulder. Faster than I thought possible for him, he pushes me off and gets to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He moves to help me up, fingers extended, but seems to think better of it, and shoves it in his pocket. I scramble to my feet, just as I see Jimmy emerge from the exit, laughing with the rest of the group. Did time really go by that fast?

I dust off the seat of my shorts, doing my best to hide what I’m positive about is a blush on my cheeks. They’re burning. I follow after Eric, already regrouped with the rest. I fall into step with Kenny. Remembering Eric’s excuse, I ask, “How was it?”

He gives me a one shouldered shrug. “Remember when South Park was overrun with the homeless? It was kinda like that, but with zombies, who are really actors. It was cool. Not _that_ scary. But whatever makes you comfortable, Leo,” he answers. “Also, we sent some of the homeless here, I think. We should probably apologize to Tweek and his family for the influx.”

Speak of the devil, Tweek asks, “What next? The nearest thing is the Despicable Me ride.” He points to it.

“Good with me,” Stan says.

So we start on the way to the next ride, and the whole time, I can’t seem to take my stare off Eric’s back.

 

The last thing we do is the Studio Tour. It’s always been my favorite when I used to come here. The trams seat eight, but since there’s twelve of us, we’re split into six for each row. Tweek’s parents, Tweek, Craig, Kyle, and Stan sit in the row in front of us. In my row, I sit next to Eric, who called dibs on the edge seat, then Kenny to my left, Token, Jimmy, and Clyde. As the final people get on, the driver introduces himself and begins to drive. As usual, Eric tunes it out because he thinks it doesn’t matter.

He turns to me, eyes wide with excitement. “Remember the last time we were here together?” he asks.

I look at him, unamused. “You mean when you tricked me into thinkin’ you were a robot from Japan to try to get some secrets from me?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. Eric continues to grin, more smug now. He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. But his attention his diverted when we pull up to the first attraction, the flash flood.


	15. Kyle Broflovski

**Home sweet home where shit always seems to go down and we can’t catch a break.**

The flight back is just as chill as the flight to. But maybe that’s just because I’m not sitting with Cartman. He’s sitting with Clyde and Butters. Kenny’s sitting with Tweek’s parents, discussing his wage at Tweek Bros. Token sits next to me. And I share an earbud with Stan as we watch Netflix because he broke his earbuds somehow over the trip.

At this one part in the movie, Stan starts laughing. The joke wasn’t even that funny. I glance at him. He stares at me with ocean blue eyes, and I might just drown. He shrugs at the confused look I send him. “I thought it was funny!” he says. “It’s not my fault you have no sense of humor.”

My jaw drops. “You know, Stan. You’re an asshole.”

He shrugs again. “At least I don’t have ego problems like you.”

I rip the earbud out my ear, and his in turn. “Hey—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“I do _not_ have ego problems! I’m humble, just as humble as you, and not even you’re that selfless.”

Stan rolls his eyes, sloshing me around in his depths. “Whatever, Ky. Keep telling yourself that, but we all know your ego is bigger than even Cartman’s.” He jabs a thumb over in Clyde’s row. Cartman’s back is to us.

Kenny laughs. “He’s right, Broflovski,” he mumbles.

I turn up clawed hands to the ceiling. “I want to strangle you both,” I snap. Because I _don’t_ have a big ego. They’re making it up.

Stan takes the fallen earbuds from my lap and puts them in his ears. He faces his phone towards him and rewinds the movie. I gape at him. He doesn’t even send a glance my way.

Gritting my teeth, I face forward and take my own phone from my pocket. For the remainder of the flight, I keep my eyes on it and don’t trade a word with Stan.

 

At the airport, I find my parents. Ike stands beside them. He’s going to be ten soon. I remember when I was ten. God, that was the longest year of my life. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stan bound up to his family. His parents are there, along with Shelly. Her hand is in Kevin’s. Kenny greets his brother, winking in the process.

Stan had said his parents went to New York while we were in LA. Shelly and Kevin watched the house. Stan and Kenny often tell me and Cartman and Butters that Shelly and Kevin are probably going to get married, even before they started dating. They had applied to the same college, after all. If they did get married, that would make Kenny and Stan brother-in-laws. That’s, like, the ultimate friendship bond. But that also means if something happens between Stan and Kenny, making them hate each other, they have no way of avoiding each other at Christmas.

Mom hugs me. “How was the trip, bubby?” she asks.

“Fun. We saw a lot of the theme parks. It was cool,” I say.

Honestly, I’m just so exhausted that I need to get home and go to sleep.

Ike tugs at Mom’s shirt. He points to Craig’s family. The Tuckers and Tweaks might as well be considered one family. Because of their sons, they’re around each other so much. “Mom, Ruby’s there. Can I say hi? She’s with Karen,” he asks.

Now that he’s pointed it out, I see Karen holding Kenny’s hand. Her and Tricia are talking, but I see how Ike’s eyes are solely on the strawberry blonde Tucker girl. I roll my eyes, recognizing the look I’ve seen Stan wear countless times when we were younger.

Mom says, “Okay. But make it quick.”

Ike runs off and greets Tricia. I watch her twirl her braid around her finger, and I’m struck with the image of Lolita. I shudder, turning back to my parents. “Can I wait in the car?” I ask.

“Sure, Kyle,” Dad says. He takes my luggage and leads me to where they parked.


	16. Eric Cartman

**Hell yes. I deserve all the goods because it’s my BIRTHDAY!**

Sweet. I come home from Los Angeles only to wake up two days later and it be my birthday. The things that matter are my gifts and cake. Can’t go wrong with that. Since the trip to LA was so close to my birthday, I didn’t really have time to plan a whole party. Not that _I_ would do the planning. I just say what I want and it gets done. So I decided to invite my stupid friends over to my house.

The first to arrive is Butters, because I specifically instructed him to come over at least five minutes earlier. He knocks on the door, and I pull him in before anyone passing by can see. The door slams shut behind him, and I stare him in the face. He lifts a wrapped box, a goofy smile plastered on his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Eric!” he says cheerily.

“Ugh,” I groan, starting to march up the stairs. “Just put the gift next to the couch.”

Butters scurries up after me. We make it to my room, previously the guest room before Mom and I moved in, and I lock the door behind Butters.

“What’s the matter, Eric?” he asks.

Instead of replying, I take his hand in mine. Our fingers are splayed against each other. His hands are smaller than mine. His fingers are slimmer. His nails are neater and not as dirty. The lines on our palms align perfectly. I only know this because Butters looked at my left palm this one time in seventh grade months before we kissed, and he traced the lines with his finger. Then he showed me his right palm and its lines, matching with mine. I had pulled my hand away, fear crawling up my neck. Now, my gut still lurches. I meet his eyes. His head is tilted at me, smiling small. I give in to the temptation to kiss every piece of his exposed skin. He giggles, sinking into me.

The knock on my door startles me from Butters. I stand three feet from him. “Yeah?” I say.

Mom from the other end sings, “Poopsikins, some of your friends are here.”

I glance at the clock. Four thirty-three. They’re early. We go downstairs, obviously with him hanging back so nothing looks out of the ordinary. Kyle and Stan and Kenny are the ones who’ve arrived so far. Together, they say, “Happy birthday, Cartman!”

Stan adds, “Congrats on turning fourteen. Too bad we’ll all be fifteen soon.”

I grin. “At least I’ll be twenty-nine when the rest of you turn thirty.”

Kyle says, “Where do we put your gifts, because you’re totally not a spoiled-ass brat already?”

I see the opportunity and I take it. I do my best to keep a serious face. “So you’re just gonna bring me a birthday gift on my birthday to my birthday party on my birthday with a birthday gift?” A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Kenny slaps a hand over his mouth and goes, “Pfft!”

Stan says, “You remembered all that?”

And Kyle, bless his Jew heart, says, “Happy birthday?”

Clyde sitting on the couch watching TV starts guffawing first until he’s wheezing along with me and everyone else. When he composes himself, he suggests, “Wanna play a video game while we wait for the rest? They should be here soon.” He goes through the rack of video games next to the TV. “We have COD and a fuck ton of Just Dance because of this one.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at me.

I shrug at my friends’ looks. “What? It’s a good game.”

Clyde says, “Yes. Such a good game that you play it all the time, so much so that you get perfects on all the Lady Gaga ones.”

Kyle gives me a once over. “Is that how you lost weight?” He grins. “You’ve been playing Just Dance nonstop?”

I walk over to the rack of video games and pluck out Just Dance 2014. I hold it up to them. “This is the best one because it has ‘Just Dance’ _and_ ‘Applause’, so fuck you.” It’s also pretty great because there’s a dance to this song “Rich Girl” with a chair, and one of these days, I swear, I’m gonna sit in that chair and Butters is gonna dance all over me. Because the dance is literally a tutorial to the perfect lap dance. “Just Dance 2015 only has ‘Bad Romance’, but it’s still cool. But”—I pick up Just Dance 2018—“this one has ‘Despacito.’ It was Clyde’s idea to get it.”

“ _Before_ the memes,” Clyde adds.

All of their eyes widen, especially Kenny’s, who looks like they’ll fall out of his head. If they do, I’m taking them so I can get better eyesight, even though with one of his eyes, my vision still sucks ass. “‘D… Despacito,’ you say?” Kenny asks.

“Is that not what I just said?”

Kenny snatches it out of my hand. “We’re playing this one, no questions asked.”

“Yep,” Kyle says.

“Mhm,” Stan agrees.

Clyde laughs as Kenny turns on the Xbox and puts in the disk. “I’ve tried it before with Eric, but let me warn you, there are two girls and two guys, and I’d _love_ to see which two of you has to be the girls.”

Clyde and I trade a mischievous glance as Kyle says, “So? How bad can it be?”

The input in the TV changes. The Just Dance menu screens pops up. “Who’s dancing?” I ask, picking up my controller to find “Despacito.”

Stan says, “Me, Kyle, and Kenny.”

I look away from the screen to Butters. “I volunteer Butters as the fourth,” I say, because I wanna see Butters dance.

He flushes, knocking his knuckles together. “Oh, all right,” he squeaks.

Kenny pats his back. “You and I can be the chicks, since I have a feeling Stan and Kyle are too _manly_ for it,” he jokes.

Butters nods.

I select the song, assigning my friends their dancers.

“What does _despacito_ even mean?” Stan asks.

“Slowly,” I answer.

“So what’s the song about?” Kyle wonders.

Kenny says, “I heard it was about sex.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“It is,” I reply.

“Eric knows all the words since he’s so fluent in Spanish,” Clyde says. “He also knows the words to ‘Bailando.’”

“That’s right,” I say. “Thank you for feeding my ego.” The song begins.

Halfway through, everyone’s laughing. It’s hard not to, with Kyle and his no rhythm and the way Kenny’s dancing with him with complete seriousness. Whenever contact is instructed in the dance, they burst into another round of laughter. I try to sing along when I can. It’s not easy when Kyle’s tripping over his two left feet and Butters moving his hips, almost like he’s trying to seduce me.

Clyde nudges me. I move my eyes from Butters to him. “What?” I hiss.

He grins, whispering, “Dude, you’re looking at Butters like.... Well, you’re making it really obvious.”

I feel my face go hot. Clyde snickers at my expression. I whisper back, “Why do you think I wanted him to dance?” I raise an eyebrow.

Clyde’s face falls. He scrunches up his nose at me. “You need help.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come _on._ Just imagine Bebe up there and you’ll understand.”

Clyde shakes his head. “No. No do _not_ put that image into my head.” He squeezes his eyes shut, but telling from the redness in his cheeks, the image is most definitely in his head.

As the second chorus begins again, the doorbell rings. Clyde gets up and answers the door. The rest of my guests come in. They tell me “Happy birthday,” but their attention is mostly on my friends dancing to “Despacito.”

Craig snorts, handing me my gift. “Fourteen finally,” he says.

I receive the rest of my presents from Token and Tweek and Jimmy. They all sit on the couch, already watching with wide grins. Butters gets the highest score, Kyle the lowest. No surprise there.

“Who wants to dance next?” Clyde asks.

“I wanna see Cartman dance to Lady Gaga. Am I the only one?” Kyle says.

“What? Eric dances to the Lady Gaga songs on Just Dance? H-hell yeah I wanna see that,” Jimmy exclaims.

Clyde says, “Which one?”

“2015,” I respond.

Clyde swaps the discs. “You ready, bro? You’ve got an audience now,” he tells me.

“Of course I’m ready! But—” Everyone freezes when the word is out of my mouth. “I want you and Craig to do it with me, or I won’t do it,” I say.

Craig rolls his eyes. Tweek pokes his side. “C’mon, Craig. Do it for me,” he coos.

Craig rolls his eyes again and says, “Fine. Even though I _don’t_ dance.”

Clyde chuckles, “That’s his point. You’re shit at dancing, so it’ll be hilarious!” That earns Clyde a hard shove from Craig.

“Bad Romance” is selected. Bets are placed. The Blonde Squad (Butters and Kenny and Tweek) are smart with placing their bets on me. Kyle and Stan bet on Clyde, the dumbasses. And Jimmy and Token offer to throw money at Craig like he’s a stripper. I hope they throw actual coins because that’d be priceless, since Jimmy phrased it like, “Token and I’ll throw coin at you since no one’s bothering to bet on you.” Everyone knows how Jimmy’s obsessed with his puns.

I rub my hands together, ready to put these hoes in their place. The song starts. A few minutes later with the song ended, I have five stars while Clyde almost has four and Craig has three. I cackle at Stan and Kyle’s shocked faces. Craig picks up the coins off the floor—actual coins like I hoped—and throws them at Token and Jimmy. They laugh, putting up their hands to shield their faces.

Kyle says, “Damn, Cartman. I didn’t know you had so much finesse.” He trades the two bucks with Tweek.

“Well then you were wrong to think that, weren’t you, Kyle?”

This goes on for sometime, bets being placed as someone goes up to dance. It’s fucking hilarious. Then, some time later, we get too exhausted to play anymore, so we switch over to taking turns playing fucking Fortnite because _that’s_ still a thing, and blasting Lady Gaga from my speaker because it’s my birthday and fuck you. I’m on my phone most of the time, going through Instagram.

Kenny’s turn is over when he dies in fifth place (what an idiot) and chooses to sit down next to me while Kyle plays, ranking higher up on the scoreboard. “Where are all your Alexas?”

I stare at Kenny over the brim my phone. “My room. Why?”

“Because Alexa, play ‘Despacito,’”

Clyde says, “Dude, every time I pass by Eric’s room when his door’s open, I say that, and all his Alexas go off.”

“Yeah, and it’s fucking annoying because it's a dead meme!” I exclaim.

“You have, like, twenty Alexas, so you're asking for it.”

Kenny stands back up. “I’m getting them.”

I watch him go up the stairs, worrying if he’ll see something that’ll give away my explorations with Butters. When he comes back down with an Alexa, face still bright, I let out a quiet breath of relief.

Kenny turns on the Alexa and says the stupid command and it works, and I’m just annoyed.

Suddenly, Kyle screams, throwing down the controller, but thankfully Stan catches it. “Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_!” he screeches.

“Oof, he sister snapped,” Craig says.

“What happened?” Kenny asks.

On the TV, Kyle’s guy is dead, second place, so close to first. Kyle shoves his hands under his hat, tugging at his curls, still cursing under his breath.

“Dramatic much?” Token says.

Tweek turns to Clyde. “This is a smart TV, right?”

Clyde nods. Tweek changes back to the cable input, going through the menu screen until he finds YouTube. Kyle collapses on the floor next to Stan.

“What’re ya looking for?” Butters wonders.

Tweek whispers, “ASMR.”

So we watch weird ASMR videos until the lights turn off. Sounds of confusion come from my friends, but then Mom comes into the living room balancing a sheet cake on her forearms, Roger beaming behind her, and I think it all clicks into place. Fourteen candles are stuck around the edges of the cake, the little flames wavering as Mom places the cake on the coffee table. I’d actually never seen the cake. Mom, Roger, and Clyde went and got it without me while I was hanging out with Stan and Kyle and Kenny and Butters yesterday. It’s red, my favorite color because it’s the color of blood, with lots of frosting, and “Happy 14th Birthday, Eric!” in big, white block letters at the center.

Jimmy pauses the video of Shane Dawson’s attempt at ASMR, or whatever. Mom smiles at me. “All right, boys. Are we ready to sing Eric ‘Happy Birthday’?”

The response is a “Yup” from everyone at the same time.

“Okay. On three. One, two, three…”

They start singing, and I just sit on the couch doing nothing like a dumbass. I watch the flames dance and the wax drip off the candlesticks. When they finish singing, I lean forward and blow out the candles.

“What’s you wish for?” Butters asks excitedly.

I hold his gaze for a moment before saying, “If I were to tell you, then it wouldn’t come true, would it?” In truth, I forgot all about the wishing thing, but it doesn’t come true anyway. I learned that when I turned seven and wished for world domination, and it didn’t come true. But if I _were_ to wish for something, it’d be for a quality blowjob from Butters.

Mom says to me, “Do you wanna cut the cake, or should I?”

“You do it. I’ll probably give in to the temptation to cut a bitch if you give me a knife. Especially Kyle,” I say, half joking.

Kyle narrows his eyes at me.

Mom starts cutting the cake in even squares as she chides, “Eric, what did we say about saying those kind of things?”

I drop back to the couch. “Ugh. It’s my birthday. Can’t I have a break for a day?”

She smiles at me and hands me the first—and biggest—slice. She kisses my head. “Happy Birthday, poopsikins.”

Roger helps her hand out slices to the rest. I love cake. Chocolate’s the best, and obviously Mom knows that, with cream in the middle. Normally, Mom makes my cakes, but lately, she’s been busy with her real job and hasn’t had time. Which I don’t really care about. What I _do_ care about is if I got my Supreme hoodie.

I lick the frosting off my thumb. “Can I start opening gifts?” I ask.

Mom brightens. “Of course!” She looks at Roger, who hurries up the stairs.

I start with gifts from my friends first. Most of it is food related, or a new video game, or something cool. I open Stan’s gift and take out a black hoodie. On the front is a pink rose grown around a blue cross. The back has more roses around a bigger blue cross and the words “‘No romance’.” That’s pretty true.

“Thanks, Sta—”

I catch a glimpse of the tag inside. “Forever 21?” I exclaim. “You _really_ went to Forever 21 to get me a fucking hoodie from the men’s section? Why?”

Stan laughs. “Because my sister took me to the mall and she went into Forever 21 and I still hadn’t gotten you anything and that was the first thing I saw in your size.”

“And because it’s funny that you now own a hoodie from a store mainly dedicated to teenage girls,” Kyle adds.

“Ha ha. You think I’ll get rid of it as soon as you leave. Joke’s on you, assholes. No one’s gonna see the tag, and it’s perfect for hoodie season.”

Token’s brows furrow. “What the hell is hoodie season?”

I say, “It’s like spooky season, but it starts in September and ends in early March, and it’s where all I wear is hoodies.”

“You wear hoodies all the time anyway,” Kenny says.

“Yeah, but not in the summer, and only some of spring,” I point out. “And so do you.”

“But I don’t have a whole closet of hoodies,” says Kenny.

 _Finally,_ the main attractions comes down the stairs in Roger’s hands. But that’s when I notice the three gift bags. Instantly, I deflate. I asked for one thing. If there’s three, then that means I didn’t get the hoodie. The Supreme hoodie.

Mr. Kitty jumps up onto the couch and curls up in my lap. I stroke her fur, and like my cat, Clyde moves from the lounge chair to next to me. Roger sets them down in front of me. He holds up a blue bag. “Open this one first. It’s from me,” he says.

So I do. It’s a pair of red wireless Beats headphones. My eyes go wide. “Shi—thanks!” I blink up at him, and I—for the first time—feel like I actually have a dad, something I’ve wanted for the longest time, but seemed impossible to get back then. I clear my throat. Quieter so my friends can’t hear, I say, “Thanks, Dad.”

He hugs me, and I have to dig my nails into my palm to crush the urge to cry like a bitch.

Clyde hands me a gift bag with a bunch of little Snacky Cakes bears printed all over it. I cast him a sidelong glance out of the corner of my eye. He grins. “Open it,” he insists.

I pull out the tissue paper, expecting something as sweet as the Beats. But instead, it’s a pair of my boxers that I’ve been looking for. “What the hell is this?” I take it out and put it over his head, grinning just as wide as him.

He pushes the waistband out of his eyes and says, “My presence is a gift enough. And joke’s on you. These are clean. I took them from the dryer, so ha!”

I shove him away as he cackles.

“Okay, boys. Enough,” Mom says. “You have one more gift, Eric.” She puts the last bag on my lap that isn’t covered by Mr. Kitty. “Read the card first.”

I open the envelope and the card. Mom and Roger and Clyde all wrote something nice and sentimental on it. But Clyde’s message is ended with, “You’re such a lucky prick for this,” and I don’t know what he’s referencing. I toss out the tissue paper and look into the bag. Something red is folded up at the bottom. I pull it out, and that feeling of wanting to cry comes back.

In my hands is a red Supreme hoodie, the one I’ve been asking for. “What the fuuuuck!” is all I can think to say. I put it on right away. It’s one size bigger (good) and I put up the hood.

My friends are in awe, as they should be. Stan says, “Whoa, dude!” and the rest of their reactions are similar. And I especially love Kyle’s “No. Way.”

“Thank you so fucking much!” I exclaim, jumping to my feet. Mr. Kitty leaps down and curls up around Butters’ feet. I throw my arms around Mom and Roger and Clyde. For only them to hear, I mumble, “I love you guys.” It’s literally the best birthday gift _ever._

 

It’s two in the morning, and Butters and I are still awake. I lay with him in my bed, because he only pretends to sleep on the air mattress. His head is on my chest, tracing the words on my T-shirt. It’s quiet. Out the window, the night sky is cloudless and twinkling. My hand moves up and down Butters’ back absentmindedly.

“Eric,” Butters whispers.

I look at him. He shifts over, his body on top of mine. “What?” I whisper back.

He buries his face in my neck. When he speaks, I feel his breath on my skin. “Back at Universal Studios, when we were leaving the bathroom at Harry Potter World…” He trails off.

“What?” I urge.

His voice is barely a whisper. He distractedly taps my shoulder to a rhythm I can’t hear. “When we were leaving the bathrooms, I thought I heard you say that you… you loved me?”

“Yes. What’s your question?”

Butters’ head pops up, looking down at me with raised eyebrows. His jaw is open. “You—you meant it? You love me?”

The intensity of his stare makes me blush and feel stupid. “Duh.” I say it with less arrogance than I want to. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know in fifth grade I swore I’d never fall in love, but—don’t even fucking think about telling Kyle this—but he was right. I _can’t_ choose when I’m gonna fall in love, or with who—”

Butters melts into a smile when he kisses me. He mumbles against my mouth, “I love you too.” He lets his head fall back onto my chest, eyes shut, but his face is still smiling. I stick my hands under his shirt, keeping them on his back.

When I told him I loved him back at Universal Studios, it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I mean, I told Butters I loved him before, but that was a lie. I used it as a manipulation to get him to do what I wanted. But now, he knows me on levels no one else does. He’s heard me say things my other friends haven’t, he’s seen me cry, he’s seen me break down. And he doesn’t judge me for it like the others would, and it’s fucking terrifying. He’s done it since fourth grade, but I don’t think it took full effect until we started dating, because then I realized how completely vulnerable I was, exposing myself to him. That’s why in fifth grade I swore to never fall in love. I hate the feeling of vulnerability. I hate the feeling of opening myself up to someone, and then worrying that they’ll tell everyone. I hate the thought of being completely out of control of myself. Because from my observation, love makes you blind. It blinds Stan and Kenny, and it blinded Heidi. And it blinds Butters, who’s seen me in a brighter light since the beginning. And I don’t want to disappoint him.

Falling out of love isn’t as easy as falling in. It’s like falling into an empty well. The fall is a quick and rushing feeling. But then you hit the bottom hard, and it hurts. You might even break a few bones. You’re alone, injured, in the dark and cold with no one to hear you. Then you’ve got to climb your way out of love, and your limbs will get tired and sore, and it’ll slow you down. You’ll cut your hands on rocks, you’ll lose your footing, and maybe you’ll even fall back down, right where you landed. And that’s what I’m scared of. Not knowing how to get out of a situation I put myself into.

But Butters changed my point of view somehow. He showed me that love wasn’t all about hurt in the end. While it does eventually end, that’s not the thing to focus on. The focus of it all is the rushing roller coaster feeling. So before I spoke my mind to Butters at Universal, I stayed up the night previous, telling myself it was only three stupid words, and that I’ve said more than that on a daily basis. It was only me in my way from keeping me from saying it. Somehow, I gathered the courage, and when we were alone at Universal, I told him I love him, despite it being hard to say, despite my promise to myself, despite my fear of falling in love, and despite him deserving to have those three words said to him a million times over.

Butters shifts on my chest, drawing me out of my thoughts. I brush my finger above the waistband of his shorts. I yawn, shifting from my back to my side, taking Butters with me. And that’s the last thing I remember.


	17. Clyde Donovan

**Eric won’t stop flexing. Help me. Stop. Flexing. PLEASE!!**

Somebody please take that thing away from him. It’s been three days since Eric’s birthday, and the only thing he’s been doing is flexing on us with his Supreme hoodie. I’m pretty sure he sleeps in that thing. I mean, we’re all jealous of him, but no one’s gonna admit that. Yesterday, we asked him to be on our team for basketball, but he said, “Sorry. I can’t. I don’t wanna get my fifteen hundred dollar Supreme hoodie dirty. But of course, none of you would understand that.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “How do you even know it’s authentic?” he snapped.

“Oh, trust me,” I said. “It’s one hundred percent authentic.”

And now it’s Fourth of July. South Park always goes all out for this day. Eric does too. Last year, he painted his face to look like the American flag. Who knows what he’ll do this year. I remember telling him how patriotic he looked (“You look real patriotic, fam”), and he said he was born three days before Fourth of July for a reason.

So far, I’ve been spending my Fourth of July sitting on the couch all day watching YouTube on the TV. Liane comes into the living room. “Clyde, can you go get your brother up in his room please?” she asks. “We’re going to leave for the fireworks and festivities soon.”

“Yup.” I stand from the couch and start up the stairs. Dad and Liane started referring to Eric and me as brothers when they got engaged two years ago. According to them, they wanted us to get used to hearing it. It worked, I’ll give them that. I don’t even bat an eye anymore when people refer to Eric as my brother. Same with him. Before, when people would call us brothers, we’d correct them and say, “ _Step_ brothers.” But now it just doesn’t matter anymore.

A piece of notebook paper with all the people to stay out of his room is taped on Eric’s door, along with a yellow pennant with his surname in bold print. People not allowed in his room are Liane, Dad, Kyle, and me. The last two he completely disregards, because I walk into his room without knocking all the time and he doesn’t say anything. He kind of hates it when I knock, because Liane or Dad usually knock, so when I do it, he thinks it’s one of them and hurries to cover up whatever he’s doing. Then he tells me to come in, only to see it’s me, and snap at me to not knock and just walk in. And when Stan’s gang is over, they always run up here to plot or something.

Ever since I accidentally walked in on Eric and Butters that one time in seventh grade, I’ve been careful to knock when Butters is over. Usually when he is though, Eric remembers to lock the door. As of today, I can’t remember if Butters came over or not. I debate knocking. I normally know when Butters comes over because Eric makes such a big deal out of it. It’s hilarious to watch him pace in front of the door, and when Butters rings the doorbell, he’ll throw open the door and dramatically pull Butters inside and rush up to his room to do whatever carnal actions they perform when they’re alone.

I decide to just open the door. Eric’s laying on his bed, new Beats on, watching YouTube on his phone. He glances at me and pulls off the headphones.

“What?” he says.

I close the door behind me before sitting in his desk chair. “Liane says to come downstairs now. We’re gonna leave for the fireworks soon,” I say.

“Okay.” He leans over the side of his bed and pulls an American flag from under. He stands and ties it around his shoulders. He’s actually not wearing his Supreme hoodie today. That’s surprising. “Ready.”

I laugh. “Nice.”

Eric pockets his phone, messing with his hair. I’m pretty sure I’m the one who got him to start that. Since there’s only two bathrooms in the house, we have to share the upstairs one every school morning. He sees me running a hand through my hair, then grinning at myself in the mirror. He used to roll his eyes at me, but now he does the same, minus the grinning. Since his hair is wavier than mine, it gets unruly faster.

I kick my feet up onto his desk. “Has Butters been over today?” I wonder. Lately, Butters is always over, just an arm’s reach from Eric’s every beck and call to make out.

Eric flushes, turning away from me. He picks up his glasses case from his bedside table. He has contact lenses, but he’s too lazy most of the time to clean them and put them in, but the main reason he wears his glasses, I believe, is because Butters told him he looks cute with them on. “No. Why?”

“Because he’s always over. And if he’s not, then you’re over at his place, and as far as I know, you haven’t left your room at all today, save for snacks and the bathroom.”

He glares at me through his glasses.

I raise an eyebrow. “Did you guys have an argument or something?”

Eric waves a dismissive hand. “It was stupid. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

“When did you fight?”

“This morning. Over the phone. We were planning on buying fireworks to set off tonight, but then we started arguing about whatever, and I hung up on him, and now he won’t answer my texts,” he explains.

The thing is, Butters and Eric don’t fight often, and their arguments never last long. One minute I can hear them yelling at each other through the wall that separates mine and Eric’s room, and the next I hear their soft murmurs and Butters’ giggles. Like Eric said, they don’t remember what they were fighting for.

Eric grumbles, mostly to himself, “It’s like we do it for fun, or something.” He looks at me. “Let’s go. Maybe I can find Butters and apologize.”

Butters is the only person Eric apologizes to.

 

It’s not completely dark when we get to Stark’s Pond. Food stands are set up, and I see a taco truck that triggers my taco tastes. There’s not even a line! Dad’s not completely parked when I jump out of my seat and run towards the truck. Eric starts shouting at me to wait, and I turn to see him following. We walk up to the window, and I order just about everything on the menu. Honestly, I don’t care if it’s a tortilla or a shell, but, damn, I love tacos.

I notice Eric craning his neck to see through the sea of people surrounding the pond  as we wait for our order. “Maybe he’s with our friends?” I suggest. Our friends got a spot near the sign, which is perfect because the fireworks will be going off above the water.

“Maybe,” Eric mumbles. He meets my eye. “You good carrying the food over yourself? ‘Cause I’m gonna go look for him.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

He nods and walks off.

The dude who took our order calls my name and hands me mine and Eric’s order. I thank him and start towards the sign, where my friends should be. I step past and around people’s blankets and chairs.

“Hey, Clyde!”

I twist my head to the left and see Bebe’s blanket. She smiles up at me. She’s with her friends—Wendy, Heidi, Red, Annie. Token sits with his arm around Nichole. Her friends are all on their phones. Red holds up her phone to her and Annie as they take a selfie.

I attempt a grin. “Hey, Bebe.”

“You got the tacos? They were _so_ good,” she says, brown eyes rolling up to the back of her head. “I would get more but I spent all my money on boba along with five tacos.”

“You can have one of mine. I only got so much because Eric and I are sharing.” I gesture to the tray of tacos.

She shakes her curly blonde hair, still smiling. She looks good even with braces. “It’s okay. I know how much you love tacos. Where are you sitting?”

I point to the sign. “We should be over there. That’s where Craig said they’d be.”

“Cool! Maybe I’ll stop by. You’ve gotta eat your tacos before they get cold because cold tacos are never good. See you around,” she says.

I blush. “See ya.” I walk away with a bounce in my step.

Bebe’s great. She’s so smart and cool and she totally gets my taco obsession. And I _would_ ask her out, but I don’t know if she likes me that way. Whatever. I’m cool with admiring her from afar.

I find our setup where my friends said it’d be. Three blankets are laid out, along with four chairs, which are currently taken by Jimmy, Kenny, Kyle, and Stan. Stan keeps glancing back in the direction of Bebe’s blanket, and I feel him. I can’t tell if he was smart or dumb to swear off his drug, Wendy Testaburger, for all of middle school. I guess I’m in a similar situation, but if something were to come up that could bring me and Bebe together, I’d totally snatch it up.

“Sup, fam,” I say, carefully lowering myself next to Tweek as to not screw up the tacos.

Tweek peers into the tray, and I recognize the look of hunger on his face. He turns and smacks Craig’s stomach, who’s propping himself up on his elbows. He glances at Tweek. “I want tacos,” Tweek says. “Come with me.”

Craig glares at me, probably for putting the idea into Tweek’s head. I grin at him. Still, he gets to his feet and takes Tweek’s hand. They walk in the direction I came from.

I set down the tacos and dig in because I can’t take it anymore. I have no idea where Eric is, but if Butters is missing too, then they’re probably with each other. Probably making out behind the trees or something, because you can’t tell me they wouldn’t do that.

By the time I’ve finished my six tacos, Eric hasn’t returned. His tacos are gonna get cold. I’m sure he’d understand if I put the coldest one out if its misery. But I also would understand his anger afterwards. I hate it when people eat my food. I lick salsa off my finger. Eric and I really bonded over food when our parents started dating. Once he got over his daily angst, we would go back to being chill with each other. We would sit in front of the TV and gorge ourselves with whatever we found in the pantry. Having Eric as my brother isn’t that bad.

I stare longingly at Eric’s tacos. They’re calling my name. They want to be in my stomach since Eric’s isn’t here. I turn to Kyle and Stan. “Have you seen Eric?” I ask. It’s getting darker, tacos are getting colder, stars are getting brighter.

Kyle shakes his head. “He’s probably getting into trouble somewhere.”

Kenny says, “Have any of you seen Leo though?”

“Is he e-even here?” Jimmy asks.

Kenny points at him. “True.”

I swore to Eric back in seventh grade that I’d keep his promise, but I mean _come on._ Him and Butters are so obvious if you put some thought into it. I don’t know how anyone misses it. They’re always gone, and usually just the two of them, and when one returns, the other comes around not long after. They’re always glancing at each other. They flirt _all the fucking time_ , but everyone thinks it’s just Eric making fun of Butters. Eric often tells Butters he “hates him so much,” and that he gets on his nerves “all the fucking time.” But the biggest thing is when Eric makes fun of the way Butters talks. At first, I didn’t get it either, but then I noticed every time Butters would say something, _anything,_ that Eric found remotely cute, he’d mock him to hide the blush on his cheeks. The most risky thing they did over the trip was kissing French on the flight back from LA, and Tweek, Craig, and Jimmy were sitting behind us. I’m honestly shocked Tweek and Craig haven’t caught on yet.

Finally, _finally,_ Eric, Butters, and Tweek and Craig return. “Fuck, Eric. Your tacos are cold!” I exclaim. “I was tempting to eat them myself from all the neglect!”

Now, you see this? If you read between the lines, I’m actually saying to him, _“You guys were ‘apologizing’ for too long.”_

Eric rolls his eyes and snatches up his tray of cold tacos. “I bought fireworks, so calm down.” He sits down next to me, and Butters sits next to Kenny. I see the way Eric’s eye twitches. He’ll never admit he’s lowkey jealous of Butters’ and Kenny’s friendship. They’re each other’s best friends, and if their friendship is anywhere near Style’s (Stan and Kyle’s) then I get where Eric’s jealousy is coming from.

I nod slowly, remembering how he told me him and Butters planned on setting off fireworks before they got into that argument. So I take it that they made up, like I predicted. I’m pretty sure their apology process goes: “make up and make out.”

A hush consecutively falls over the lake. The first firework explodes in the sky. Red, white, blue showers down, reflecting on the black of the lake. I lay on my back, my arms tucked under my head. Everyone looks up at the fireworks, mesmerized. Explosion after colorful explosion goes off, staining the sky. It makes me sad that we only have a month of summer break before we have to start high school, but it’s still summer. There’s still time to do nothing. I banish the thoughts of school and homework from my mind as I watch the fireworks.


End file.
